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wolf-and-bard · 4 years ago

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Proper Procedures for Wooing Witches

for @littoraly-art because you are amazing and I already said this, but I hope you have an awesome birthday <3

Pairing: Yennefer/Jaskier

Word Count: ~2.2k

Rating: T, some explicit language

„My darling Yennefer,“ Jaskier calls out as he swoops into his Oxenfurt apartment with a flat carton wedged under his arm. It already nicked the lavender mesh overlay of his newest doublet, but for once, he absolutely cannot be bothered by that. It’s too nice of a day. “Hello?” He kicks off his shoes.

High noon’s just gone by and Jaskier doesn’t expect Yen to be up yet – which means she will hex his ass if he wakes her. His giddiness outweighs his fears though, heart warming, as he takes in the cluttered entryway. Several pairs of shoes are strewn about, his and hers mixing on the ground. Yen’s all look like they could double as a lethal weapon and are some variation of black and white (though one pair is tinged brown from blood that crusts the bottom, he doesn’t want to know). It’s awfully domestic, a product of the temporary living situation they are in.

When Yen requested to use his rooms for a week or so, she explicitly asked for Jaskier not to be there, but, well, he is weak, he wants her, he couldn’t have stayed away if he tried. Yen’s been snippy from the moment he welcomed her with open arms and the prospect of sharing a bedroom, snippy to the point of grumpiness. That’s fair, Jaskier supposes. It’s also fair that she slips out at the most random times of day, coming back only when Jaskier’s gone to the academy for lectures or the pub for drinks with his colleagues. All fair and good. He catches her about once a day which is more than he can say for most of the year. Fair, yes. Nice, even though Yen is rarely, if at all, impressed with his affection for her. A bard can dream.

“Yenny,” he shouts again and whistles to himself as he slides through to the main room. To his surprise, she lounges at his dinner table by the window, one hand curled around a steaming mug, the other holding up one of his most beloved poetry collections (not only because he wrote several of the entries). Her hair falls in rich raven curls that cover her chest, barely concealed by the sheer black dressing gown she wears. It’s the only thing she wears, Jaskier notices, gulping heavily. Yen doesn’t look up from her reading, her lips are pursed and her tone clipped as she replies.

“For every time you call me that, bard, your balls will grow the tiniest fraction until, one day, they will explode, never to grow back.”

Jaskier considers it. Directs his attention downward. They do feel a bit strange, don’t they? But that’s only because he’s thinking about them. Right.

“I shall not be fooled,” Jaskier says, grinning. “But if you so insist, ‘beloved’ will do just as well. I brought you a gift.” Brushing past his dusty bookshelves and cluttered desk, he struts towards the table and drops the carton on it. It lands with a thud and swirls up more dust – how is it this dusty already, Jaskier could swear he cleaned the place, like, last month?

Yen licks her finger to turn the page which makes Jaskier laugh out loud. He rounds the table to glance over her shoulder, but immediately has to retch. There, catching Yen’s precise attention, is Valdo’s vomit-inducing sonnet about his first time taking a tumble with what Jaskier assumes was a professional. It has to be, no self-respecting person would bed the man free of his coin. Jaskier makes a mental note to spread another rumour about Valdo and various sexual diseases, then plucks the book from her hands and lets it drop to the table. She sighs softly under her breath and allows him to put a hand on her shoulder. Is that… does she lean into him? The tiniest bit? Oh, dear.

“That better not be a dress,” Yen says, reaching out. Her fingertips trace the edge of the carton as if she’s in deep debate on whether to pop it open. This is a game they’ve been playing excessively, him bringing her gifts, her making a show of whether to accept them or not. On the few occasions that Yen invites him for a drink or gives the acoustic properties of his lute a small magical boost, Jaskier fails to reciprocate her cool attitude. He’s too in love to feign indifference and it’s not like she would believe him either.

“If we’re using dress in terms of the precise cut it implies then no, no dress,” he replies, thumb rubbing her skin through the slippery material of the gown mostly to work through the tightness in his throat. It hurts sometimes because this farce makes him think she doesn’t want him. Hell, most things Yen does are aimed at making him think she doesn’t want him. But then there are fractions of admittance like this, like when her gravity shifts towards him or he finds her in his rooms, barely dressed, that make him think there might be more there. Jaskier simply has to practice patience.

“Julian, do I seem like a woman easily impressed with shallow gifts of clothes? In case you hadn’t noticed, I have a very particular style.”

“Oh, I noticed. Trust me, Yenny, you are very much one of a kind,” he replies, mesmerized by her fingers dancing on the cardboard. She loses no time in jabbing back.

“And yet you revert to common courting techniques? That’s pathetic and you know it.”

“Bold of you to assume I am courting you.”

“Bold of you to claim you are not. If I remember correctly, the last time Geralt was with us you got drunk off your ass and asked him for his permission to woo me. Which was sweet but not at all his place to allow. Then you continued to exert yourself into my life on every possible occasion with flowers and picnics and awful love songs. How else am I going to interpret all this?” Yen asks, craning her neck to look up at him from under dark lashes. Gods, she is gorgeous.

“Touché. But do not think I would waste the efforts of my best tailor on just anyone. This is advanced courting, dear.”

“I fail to see its distinguishing qualities.”

“The difference is that these clothes are hardly a gift and more a means to an end.” Jaskier winks which has her eyes narrow, fall back to the carton.

“You want to take me somewhere” Yen asks and, of course, she untangles his intentions immediately.

“Not just somewhere. My cousin’s forwarded me an invitation to a ball put on by some countryside nobleman or other. His work keeps him in Kerack so I’m to go in his stead. That is to say, I’d hoped you would go dancing with me.”

Yen looks up once more and Jaskier starts a little. He will never get used to the vibrance of her violet eyes, how they see through him. Once, she said it took no effort at all to pick at his thoughts, that she always feels as though he’s screaming them right at her. So, he does.

Please, he thinks, mouth twitching into a soft smile. Please, just this once. It would mean the world to me.

Yen huffs a small laugh and shakes her head, then draws the box towards her. Inside, she finds a slim-cut blouse made from the finest black cotton in the city, complete with white lace trim down the front and flaring out at the cuffs and collar. With it, Jaskier had the tailor make a white corset belt and a pair of deep black pants that have applications of the same lace. It would look precarious, almost edgy, on anyone else, but on Yen… the thought alone makes Jaskier’s chest tighten with adoration.

“Jules, this is beautiful,” Yen murmurs as her fingers trace the line of the seams on the blouse. Jaskier puts his other hand to her shoulder and holds on for dear life as his ear twitches. Was that? Did she just? Oh, how he itches to make a quip about the nickname. Because it’s funny, yes, but it also gives him palpitations. He feels like a lovesick puppy trying to befriend a wild cat. Which also means that any violation of trust can ruin what they have. It’s just so fucking precious, this whole affair, and if he were on the outside of it, he would squeal in delight and write a whole novel about it. He still might.

“I’m glad you like it. And it will look absolutely stunning on you. You will look stunning in it. Ah, not implying that you don’t usually look stunning. What I am saying is, the other attendees will be stunned.”

“You’re ridiculous… and stupid too. Are you certain you want to take me to the ball? I’m not exactly popular with the local nobility.”

“Quite the tragedy,” Jaskier says and because he feels daring, he bends down and kisses the top of her head. Then, he saunters over to the stove, pours himself a mug of tea and takes the seat next to her. “And yes, I am certain. In fact, there is nothing I’d love more. Let the people talk.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Yen says on another sigh. “Not about what they say or think or do.”

“Which is part of what makes you so damn sexy.”

Yen rolls her eyes and folds the clothes back into the carton.

“These are lovely, but I will not wear them to the dance,” Yen says. Which means she will go with him at least. It’s not enough, Jaskier is dying to see her wear what he picked out, dying to show the world that such a brilliant woman would choose to spend the evening with him. Most of all, he wants to make her happy. “Trust me on this. You have a reputation to worry about and bringing me along already risks that. Bringing me along in that can and will mess with your career.”

“Trust me, when I say that it won’t matter. I’m already famous and folk love to gossip about famous people. Probably more than they love my songs. I could imagine worse truths to be spread about me. Besides, didn’t you just say you don’t care what people think about you? Why then would you worry about what people think about me?”

"Well I never," she says, but her lips soften into a smile and her hand rises to fiddle with her pendant. Jaskier gently pries it off and brings her knuckles to his lips.

"I don't care either," he whispers. "I just want to go dancing with you."

"I'll portal to my rooms in Kaedwen and get one of my old dresses.” Her face is all smiles, but an edge has stolen into her voice which makes her sound forlorn, sad even, and her eyes flicker over to the folded clothes in the box. Jaskier’s throat tightens.

"Why are you so stubborn? It’s obvious you want to wear them. You don’t need to start giving a fuck now.”

"I'm trying to do something for you here, Julian. I don't usually go out of my way to attend stuck-up parties with peacocks such as yourself."

“Please,” Jaskier says. He still holds her hands in both of his and because he has no shame, and because this really does mean the world to him, he sinks off his chair and onto his knees before her legs. Yen’s eyes widen a fraction. “For me.”

-----

They dance. Oh, how they dance. Jaskier always considered himself a great dancer, he has music in his veins and has flirted and whirled his way through every ball room and banquet hall on the Continent, and it’s clear that Yen is no stranger to this art either. They are exuberant, relentless, they laugh and pirouette and demand their ground, much to the detriment of those with lesser skills. The lack of a dress doesn’t subtract from their flair, if anything, it allows for a broader range of motion

"The only way we could draw more eyes is if we'd brought Geralt along,” Yen giggles. Fuck. She’s so carefree it brings tears to Jaskier’s eyes.

"Gods no," he laughs. "He would ruin all the fun with his growling and brooding. If you're looking for more attention however..."

"Jules-"

Jaskier twirls her and, in that motion, catches her around the waist and dips her low, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips which are parted on a yelp. Before he can tug her up again, her hands come forward to cup his face and she presses into him, grins into the kiss.

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” she whispers.

“Admit it,” Jaskier drawls as he brings her back upright and they fall into an easy basic waltz, closer to each other than the dance strictly necessitates. “You love me.”

“That is awfully presumptuous of you.” But she laughs, and kisses his cheek, and Jaskier thinks that maybe one day, she will. “Don’t bet on it, bard.”

#the witcher #witcher #jaskier #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer x jaskier #yenskier #I'll reblog with ao3 link later #ficlet #my writing #fluff

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secretsniper3 · 3 years ago

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Part 2: Wet..

I wake, rolling over my alarm says 08:00, my day starts now. Blinking and drinking in my surroundings im surprised that im not bound anymore, Master probably released me from my situation before he too went to sleep, makes sense since I still have my morning routine to do. Spreading my thighs my hand creeps under the sheets and massages my clit, moisture instantly wetting my fingers as i rub up and down, fingers dancing expertly over my throbbing clit, being denied for so long my reaction is second nature now as my back arches up off my bed as my hand continues its assault on my senses. 1 edge moments later my mind abuzz with desire. Another edge, 3 to go and my morning can really begin. On and on my fingers go, dancing circles around my needy clit. Stopping just shy of another orgasm, 3 edges down. Pushing a finger and then another into my wet pussy I rub the walls and pull out seconds later. 4 edges down, returning my fingers to my box as my other hand clutches my breast, back still arched high, I slams down to the bed and thrusts my hands to my pillow. 5 edges done.

Climbing out of bed I go and brush my hair and then my teeth. A outfit is already laid out by my Master. A latex sleeveless shirt and matching pants, black high heels and a corset. My day will clearly be a tough one for me. Looking around I cannot find anything even resembling underwear. Knowing my punishment would be beyond measure if I were to dress my pussy myself I don my latex outfit for the day. Shirt, then the pants, sliding easily up my smooth legs as my juices made for handy lubricant. Pressing the latex on my pussy I pause. A simple deep breath removes my hand from what I know is forbidden to me now my morning edges are complete. Sitting on the bedside I clip my heels on so it doesnt fall off and put on my corset, only being able to loosly cinche it without help.

With great care, I walk out my bedroom door, slow paces in my high heels, my pussy rubbing against the latex with every step sending chills down my spine making my mind drift to my little buzzer throbbing away relentlessly. down the stairs, Master was waiting for me. Standing before him I assume my position on my knees, legs open palms up, head down.

“Good morning Master” I say keeping my head low.

“Morning my dear, sleep well i hope, i have a few fun things for you to enjoy today” my Master sounds eager.. its a little unsettling.

Standing up at his command I follow him to the dining room. Breakfast is already served. Im stunned, something is going on and Im concerned by what this means, my Master has almost never made breakfast for me. Heading to my seat I spot it. A large dildo, right where my pulsing pussy would lay, with my Masters guiding hand I ease down onto the large toy. The latex over my pussy parting at the intrusion! how could I not notice that gap when I put it on?? sliding down the thick cock my pussy serving to lubricate it all the way to the base. With a wet shlop Im completely full and I havnt even touched my bacon and eggs! perhaps a drink to calm my nerves, as I take a large gulp I feel warm.. a little too warm. Looking to my Master, he confirms my suspicions by raising his own glass. My pussy now spasming around the dildo as the aphrodisiac runs its course as I lean forward and stifle a moan.

My Master laughs at my situation. “Eat up my dear, your going to need your strength.” he says sending a flurry of chills down my spine leading right to my throbbing womanhood! gasping for air I raise a shaking hand to my fork and eat my food, likely spiked as well.. yes, its spiked. With each piece I swallow I feel the heat burn hotter, like a raging inferno my body craving the 1 thing my mind knows it must never have without consent! finishing my drugged meal my Master takes me by the hand and raises me up. Stopping several times to prevent a unauthorised orgasm. Leading me to the play room I see a device I have never seen before but it scares the hell out of me.

Standing, or lying in the middle of the room is a series of Stock restraints circling a large padded seat, leading me over to it, my Master lays me down flat. locking my wrists in their own personal Stock holders, followed by my ankles. Breathing faster at this development and my need constantly rising im hoisted in the air by the cushion im laying on, my restraints following suit. Standing beside me my Master reveals more holes in my latex, a hole per nipple with which he inserts a suction cup with a wire and covering it with the latex again, leaving just the wire exposed. moving down to my clit he reveals a suction cup, its thin and long and now, attached to my maddening, throbbing buzzer, he begins pumping. My eyes fly open in a combination of fear and arousal as my clit starts to get sucked into the tube, further and further its pulled from its hood till I feel it. Something hard is touching my clit, looking down Im greeted with a wire, pressing the tip of my isolated clit with the means to make me thrash around were I not restrained already. My drug ridden mind flooding with thoughts of my soon to be, hellish day that started too calmly as my Master slides a thick metal cock into my ass. I cant see it but I can bet theres a wire attached to it as well.

Moving to my head Master puts a dildo gag in my mouth and a latex hood over my head, my long red hair pulled through the back and the hood sealed tight. I cant see, I can barely hear and I can only weakly moan around this toy in my mouth, and as my thoughts go to the toy in my mouth, it expands, and again, and again! My mouth now completely full with cock my pleas and moans now a dull grunt, barely audible to those outside my hood. My pussy feels cold air, Master has moved the latex away from my drooling slit, heat radiating off my hungry hole, I breathe deep as Master presses his tongue against my slick folds. If I could scream, I would have. instead my legs tremble uncontrollably and my arms spasm, locked in my restraints thats all I really can do. Master licks again and again drawing more fluid from me. My breathing now very audible as air rushes in and out through my nose, Then I feel it. its coming, shit IM CUMMING! and then.. pure agony. My nipples cop it first, but only by microseconds, as they light up with electricity, followed by my ass and worst of all, my throbbing clit. My eyes shoot up into my skull as Im torn down from the plateau I was cresting mere moments ago! My pussy spasms in need as my Masters tongue only redoubles its assault knowing he has me, right where he wants me.

A full hour passes, and Masters Tongue leaves my pussy as another orgasm is slammed away by the electricity as this setup is designed to deny, not reward so I scream into my inflated cock gag. A few moments pass by idle as Im left to stew in my burning need, electricity occasionally zapping my nipples to make sure im denied release from my drug fuelled arousal. I hear Master say something outside my latex hood, I cant make out the words but he seems to know that I was only moments from cumming just now and thats led his to this pause to let me calm down, if that were possible with the drugs coursing through my veins and the intoxicating latex still coating my body and head Im swimming in a sea of arousal and Im not allowed to cum even a little even in my intense exhaustion im allowed only this peace of not being dragged kicking and screaming to more denial! A familiar sensation returns as Masters tongue reaffixes itself to my Labia and once again im lit of with electricity as another orgasm is beaten back, Round 2 begins.

2 Whole hours of torturous orgasm denial at Masters hands and tongue pass as im finally lowered to the ground, it only took a minute to unlock my limbs from the hellish devices that held me down, and another minute to free my ass, nipples and clit from their own hellish devices. A flick to the clit confirms Im still conscious. My Master picks me up and carries me to the nearby lounge, there he removes my hood and gag, and rests my head on his lap and runs his fingers through my sweat soaked hair. Stripping me of my latex suit, leaving only my heels on he continues my massage, as I regain my senses slowly.

“Master.. Thank you for training this slave to serve” I say weakly, as he cups my cheek with his tender hand, I roll over and fish out his throbbing cock and begin sucking, after all that pain and denial i need something I love, i need Masters cum in my mouth to savour the taste then swallow like the Good Slave I am. Eventually im rewarded with a mouthful as i drink every drop im given and swallow, it really is delicious to me now, I cant go back to a normal life, I belong to my Master.

Taking me to the loungeroom Master instructs me to edge for my lunch. A simple task but as he turns to leave he gives me the number. 30 edges.. My pussy pulses again and the flood gates reopen, I still havnt had that orgasm my body just remembered it was desperate for. oh god could I really do 30 in a row without stopping or spilling over? My Master seems to think so. Already days into my denial and with drugs wracking my brain I begin my edges. It only took a hour but I finally got them all. Another dose of drugged lunch and Im back to normal, if horny out of my mind is normal. The rest of my day is fairly standard compared to my morning training, part of me wants to do it again but not any time soon.

Pleasuring my Masters cock I polish his shoes after that in my favourite maid outfit, remembering to always bend at the waist, never the knees, my Master loves a good show. My daily chores complete Im taken to the shower and cleaned by my Master, taking great care not to rub over my pussy too hard. A lovely steak for dinner with some wine, I could hardly taste the drug in that wine, but my pussy sure felt it. My Master, eager to set me to bed attaches a chastity belt tightly to my pussy. I dont see the point as I would never touch without permission.. right?

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amphtaminedreams · 4 years ago

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Sitting Front Row at...(On a Budget Obvs): Lookbook no.15

Hey to anyone reading!

And welcome to my fave lookbook I’ve done in a longggg ass time! Yes, that’s partially because it involved making collages and doing the low effort work of scouring Vogue Runway for “research purposes”, but I promise, that statement wasn’t made out of COMPLETE laziness-I am super happy with it too. It’s been a good use of pre-part-lockdown-lift time in the interim between that brief period of Christmas celebrations and eateries finally fucking opening again because let’s be honest, I always knew I was gonna get distracted by oat milk vanilla lattes and veggie all day breakfasts once I could actually sit down with them at my fave local cafe. You could say I was very much operating on a self-imposed deadline.

The “what I would wear to sit front row at...[insert designer here]” TikTok/Instagram reel trend was something I wanted to get on board with ever since I first saw one and whilst the option of doing my own live action take-I really cannot bear the thought of having to edit footage of myself awkwardly attempting to sit nonchalantly in front of a camera for hours on end-was off the cards considering my complete lack of screen presence, I decided a Tumblr text post would work just as well, and if not even better in a way. Given the absence of the time limitations you face when you’re making a reel or a TikTok I thought it’d be cool to present the looks as part of a mini moodboard for each designer which adds a bit of context to each look even if you aren’t familiar with their past collections and establishes the general vibe of the brand I’m attempting to replicate. Not to sound snotty or as if I am the font of all knowledge on anything high fashion related but even with my amateur knowledge I noticed that as the video trend took off and was adopted by big name influencers, it became less about the average person putting their own personal spin on the aesthetic of the labels we can’t ordinarily afford and more about them building outfits that only vaguely resemble the general public perception of the brand around the real corresponding (and often gifted and thus inaccessible to someone who doesn’t makes thousands for a sponsored post) pieces they own SO I thought I’d take the trend back to its roots and get a bit resourceful. All that being said, in no particular order, here are the outfits I would wear to sit front row at Gucci, Vera Wang, Miu-Miu, Marc Jacobs, Dolce & Gabbana, Brock Collection, Alexander McQueen, Etro, Burberry aaaand Saint Laurent based on their past collections and guess what? They didn’t cost a shit tonne of money :-)

-disclaimer: will include an asterisk before any new purchases if from a high street store though to be honest, I don’t think there are any, we shall see! I do include where I got old purchases from in case anyone wants to search anything on Depop/Ebay-

1. Saint Laurent (formerly Yves Saint Laurent)

-blazer from identityparty on Depop, pleather trousers from Zara, jewellery from Dolls Kill-

I know technically abbreviating Saint Laurent to YSL doesn’t really make much sense anymore given the brand’s name change in 2012, but I’ll always think of it as that in the same way I’ll always associate it with the slightly dishevelled yet simultaneously glitzy rock n’ roll aesthetic. The thing is, whilst YSL hasn’t done anything wildly out of the box for a long time, it’s rare they put a look on the runway that I wouldn’t wear; they never end up being a fashion week standout but the Parisienne take on grunge we’ve seen Anthony Vaccarello establish as his go-to will always have a place in my heart.

2. Alexander McQueen

-embroidered leather jacket from Ebay (originally Topshop), harness from Amazon, dress from ASOS, boots from Koi Vegan Footwear-

Alexander McQueen is a brand that is pretty much universally liked, from the historically extravagant and groundbreaking shows the man himself put together to Sarah Burton’s more toned down but still beautiful collections. Obviously I didn’t attempt to do justice to the former, so I tried my hand at putting together a look inspired by Sarah’s blend of delicate femininity and nomadic edge, and it went...okay? Like it’s definitely not my favourite of all the looks because it does give off slightly cheap copycat vibes buuut outside of the context of this lookbook it’s cute.

3. Brock Collection

-boater hat from Ebay, midi skirt from morganogle on Depop, corset top from ownmode_, heels from amybeckett1, bag from Primark-

Brock isn’t as well known a brand as most of the others in this list but I adore everything Laura Vassar Brock does and I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to try and channel the vision of one of the OG pioneers of the cottagecore vibe through my own wardrobe. I mean fr, this woman’s work as a steady provider of meadow photoshoot worthy dresses and corsets and skirts is v slept on and I will not stand for it. I will sit in front of a camera and then write a paragraph in my blog post begging anybody who reads to give LVB (an abbreviation I acknowledge is unlikely to catch on because Lisa Vanderpump anybody?) some form of acknowledgement for her services to period romance novel inspired moodboards everywhere.

4. Marc Jacobs

-coat from House of Sunny, white shirt from Retro World Camden, co-ord from Sugar Thrillz, bag from Poppy Lissiman-

If there’s one thing Marc Jacobs always does, it’s COMMITS. TO. HIS. THEME. I just KNOW he has a secret Pinterest with separate boards for every fashion era of the 20th century and he is putting those boards to good use providing us with collections that are as immersive as they are eclectic year in year out.

5. Miu Miu

-beret from H&M, hair clips from H&M, jewellery from Primark, coat from mollyyemmaa on Depop, shirt from YesStyle, sweater vest from YesStyle, skirt from Depop, diamanté belt from Brandy Melville, shoes from Koi Vegan Footwear-

We all like to talk about Bratz dolls and Monster High dolls and Barbies as fashion inspo but can we all focus on Cabbage Patch dolls for two secs so as to acknowledge the fact that a Miu Miu collection is basically all their fits grown up? And made boujie as fuck? If I want my fix of Wes Anderson meets Scream Queens (what a combo) inspired outfits, if I want prissy and girlish but also glam, if I want to look like a bratty rich girl whose one redeeming quality is her eye for vintage clothes, I know where to look and that is the Miu Miu section of Vogue Runway.

6. Vera Wang

-blazer as in no.1, velvet bralet from catdegaris on Depop, harness from Amazon, skirt from Ebay, knee high socks from Ebay, lace up boots from Ebay-

Vera Wang’s RTW aesthetic, a blend of the ethereal, ultra-feminine bridal designs she’s known for and British style punk rock influences, is something I feel has only become firmly established in recent years but it is everything I ever wanted and more. I always find myself trying to balance the part of me that loves everything girly and delicate and pretty and the part of me that would love to be in a biker gang and Vera’s collections are always an inspirational reminder of just how well it can be done.

7. Burberry

-coat from charity shop, suit from emmafisher3 on Depop, top from simranindia, shirt underneath from Zara, jewellery from ASOS-

Now I’m not gonna lie, I’m not the biggest fan of Burberry but there have been a few looks over the past few years I’ve really liked and as someone who owns numerous trench coats, high necks and way too much plaid, I thought it’d be an easy one to replicate. Plus, if you can count on Riccardo Tisci for nothing else you at least can rely on him giving you some layering inspo which is very much needed in a country where it literally just snowed in April and where my plans for today have just been cancelled because the iPhone weather app did a Karen Smith and didn’t predict rain for today right up until it started raining so thanks for that one British meteorologists. Your incompetence strikes again.

8. Etro

-corset from Urban Outfitters, vinyl trench coat from Topshop, boots from Ebay, black slip dress from kaoanaoleinik on Depop, fur trim afghan coat from louisemarcella-

Like with Brock Collection, Etro isn’t a hugely well known brand, but it is always one of my favourites-to add a spanner into the works of any attempts to cultivate a firm sense of personal style, I live for the ornate Bohemian look that Etro does so well just as much as I love both grungy and girly pieces, and so I really wanted to include a brand whose collections go down that route. It was a toss-up between this and Zimmerman, the flirtier, free spirit counterpart to the dark romance of Veronica Etro’s designs; her vision really shines through the most when it comes to the brand’s winter collections, imo, and given that I live in a country where winter or some weather state resembling it does seem to take up 70% of the year, I did decide on channelling her work rather than that of the equally talented Nicky and Simone Zimmermann this time round.

9. Dolce & Gabbana

-flower crown from ASOS, tiara from Amazon, earrings from YesStyle, dress from alicealderdice1 on Depop, opera gloves from Ebay, boots from Koi Vegan Footwear-

D&G is a brand I felt really conflicted about doing-I don’t include their current collections in my fashion week reviews based on the actions of designers Stefano Gabbana and Domenico Dolce over the last few years because I don’t want to mitigate the collective effort of fashion critics to push them towards irrelevancy. Though people like to claim the brand has turned a corner since Lucio Di Rosa was brought on board as the manager of celebrity and VIP relations last year (they are as prolific a force on red carpet fashion as ever), we haven’t seen any real meaningful apologies or reparations made by Dolce and Gabbana themselves which once again leaves us in the all too familiar quandary of whether or not we can separate the art from the artist especially when it is far too much of a simplification to only credit the two men for their work given there’s a whole design team behind them. There are a LOT of shitty people working in fashion, the whole industry is a bit of a cesspit if we’re honest, but I don’t think that should stop us from at least being able to appreciate old collections if we make sure we aren’t engaging in any kind of promotion of current works whilst doing so. D&G are a brand of high highs and low lows, with looks that range from hideously ugly to showstoppingly beautiful in a single show-when the looks are good, they are GOOD-and their presence in the fashion world is most definitely felt whether we want it to be or not. It would just be shit to refuse to recognise the existence of some real iconic runway moments, the practical work that went into the ornate detail and opulence that helped cement D&Gs place in sartorial history, the styling that’s made goddesses and fairytale queens out of modern day women as they’ve glided down catwalks, the far more extravagant and, let’s be real, sexier version of our world D&G shows have transported us to in the past. Will I talk about D&G ever again? No, and if you Google the scandals their brand has faced over the past few years, there are more than enough reasons why, but just this once I did want to pay homage to some of the collections, the snippets of which I saw on my Tumblr dashboard back when I was about 13, that first got me into fashion.

10. Gucci

-fur coat from Topshop, clips from Zaful, glasses from Ebay, dress from gracewright246 on Depop, shirt from Boohoo, blazer from charity shop-

Now last but, if you ever read any of my fashion week reviews (the likelihood of someone actually having read one of them and reading this is incredibly, incredibly slim lol, I wouldn’t read me either) you’ll know, definitely not least, is Gucci because Alessandro Michele comes through every!! single!! time!!

The man is truly the king of quirky throwback maximalism and it hurts my heart that a lot of people seem to think of it only as a brand associated with ostentatious displays of wealth. Year after year since Michele was made creative director he has released purposeful, fully-fleshed out collections which unravel themselves to us on the runway like time capsules containing the belongings of the rich and whimsical and yes that can sometimes result in outfits which are *ahem* a bit mismatched but it doesn’t matter because through fashion he manages to take us to a vivid version of the past where people could dress as freely and lavishly as they wanted to, into the wardrobe of a person unaffected by the side-eyeing of others. You get the impression he doesn’t design so much as plays around with some kind of enchanted dress up box and takes inspiration from there and to give that impression is only a credit to his talent-to make outfits so kooky and extravagant look like they were meant to be takes a boldness and genuine love for clothes that I do tend to feel a lot of the big name designers have lost in the pursuit of profit and the necessary placating of the dying customer base that keeps that coming in. Of course I'm not for a second saying Gucci does not care about profit, but at the very least, they have on board a creative director who genuinely has fun with what they’re putting out there and wants to make a statement too and that really shows; you can rest on your laurels and sell tweed boucle jackets to rich old white women for eternity but nobody’s going to mention your brand name and the word groundbreaking in the same sentence ever again unless they’re talking about what it was a century ago, you know (mentioning no names...unless...did I hear someone say Chanel)? That feels like such a shady way to end, lol, but I’m sure said brand will survive-to be fair, they’ve been included in every other What I’d Wear to Sit Front Row At video I’ve seen so although I’m always slagging them off for doing the saaaaame thinggggg year after year, for that same reason their aesthetic is instantly recognisable and so will always be a source of imitation. There are obviously pros and cons to being a brand which constantly reinvents itself but I think it’s totally possible to do that whilst maintaining an overall mission, and Alessandro Michele’s work at Gucci demonstrates that with ease.

Anyway, if you got to here, thanks for reading! I know I’m super behind on this whole TikTok trend and I know a Tumblr post instead of a video is a bit of a cop out but all the real, physically awkward ones out there know that watching yourself back is excruciating lmao, so I hope this does the trick. After this, I’m gonna get back to the reviewing S/S21 collections post though knowing me I’ll probs take a few days to get back into that because I feel like since I left full-time education (RIP me going back in a few months) writing continuously like this for any longer than about 15 mins fries what brain cells I have left. Again, thank you for reading and if you are, sending many good vibes your way! Stay safe!

Lauren x

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aroaceslytherin · 3 years ago

Text

A03 AU HP Fanfic (Finally Here!)

Chapter 1: Karma Killed Her (https://archiveofourown.org/works/31582727/chapters/78143753) (mention of abuse and homophobia, some transphobia)

QUITE LONG

1953 Walburga winced as the maids pulled tighter on her corset. Her nails dug into her palms. Her arms hanging loosely at her sides. Today was her wedding day. Yesterday was the day she had been practicing her posture. Her mother hit her quite a number of times whilst screaming; ‘Upright! Left, right, forward, back. Let him lead! Your wedding must be perfect or else it will surely lead you to a life of solitude!’ For as long as Walburga could remember, she had been a little unsteady on her feet. She would chase her brothers down the hall and clip a corner to close which resulted in bruises on her shoulders, falling on her arse and limping for a week, or that one time she stained her mothers floorboards with a broken nose. That was a day she would never forget. FLASHBACK She could already hear the furious steps of her mother’s heels as they climbed the winding stairs of their manor. “CAMELIA WALBURGA BLACK!” Walburga groaned internally as the witches mended her nose. “Mother, I have told you. I cannot help it that I stumble!” Irma growled, hitting her daughter over the head with her palm. “You need to listen to the etiquette teachers! Practice makes perfect after all, and you are to be the perfect heiress someday! We already have your husband chosen, and I am not having you ruin anything with your clumsy nature! I will see to it you go twice every-day from here on out!” Walburga opened her mouth to protest. Her mother clamped her mouth shut, pushing the medi-witches out of the washroom. “Enough, ladies!” She knelt in front of Walburga, tilting her daughter’s head up so grey eyes met hers. “You are growing up, dear. I cannot have you muddying up your dresses anymore as you chase your brothers ‘round this house! It is unladylike! You are soon to be eleven! Tis’ time you act like a grown woman!” Irma pulled her daughter up and shoved her to the door. “Dinner is downstairs getting cold, I suggest you eat before you get none. AND CLEAN UP YOUR BLOOD BEFORE BED OR YOU GO HUNGRY FOR A WEEK!” END FLASHBACK Walburga tousled her curls through her fingers and admired her dress in the floor-length mirror before she headed out of her bedroom and into the halls. Her heels tapped softly on the hardwood floor as she made her way downstairs. She tripped once she got to the bottom. Though not over herself. “ALPHARD!” She screamed, picking up the two-year-old dressed in a black ruffled dress. She hoisted her on her hip, supporting her with one hand under the baby's bum. Walburga stormed through the house looking for her younger brother just shy of one year. She found him outside in the greenhouse, taking a drag. She groaned, shifting the squirmy brat to her other side.

“Alphard Roland Black!” She yelled through gritted teeth, pushing through the greenhouse doors.

He hadn’t noticed her until she grabbed the cigarette from his mouth and threw it on the ground, stomping on it with her heeled boot; putting it out.

“Fuck’s sake, what?!” Alphard yelled, hands to the side. Walburga thrust the baby into his arms. He took her with a groan of protest and disgust. “I don’t want this.”

“You are on baby duty!” Walburga huffed, crossing her arms and scowling at him. “We expected you to be keeping these kids from being in our way, and you are out here smoking fags?!”

“Why are we doing this? They are Cygnus’ after all! Besides, this whole cousin marrying cousin thing is absurd!” He waved his hand in a circle, rolling his sharp grey eyes.

“Mother is against people knowing he had kids out of wedlock and in his teens. Why are you so against everything she teaches?”

“So is Cygnus!”

“NOT!” Walburga screamed. “He merely broke one rule, you go against everything!” She swiped her hand through the air firmly to signify her point.

“WALBURGA!” Their mother screamed from the porch. “Get back in this house this instant!”

Walburga poked her brother in the chest with her sharp nail painted black. "Watch the brats or I will have your head.” She growled as she hiked up her dress with a huff before heading back to her mother. “Heaven forbid my kids act like him.” She murmured under her breath.

Upon approaching her mother, Irma cast cleaning charms on her then pushed her inside. “I thought I told you to stop going after Alphard, you are twenty-five for crying out loud.”

“He was smoking again and was not watching Bellatrix like you asked. I tripped over her.” She felt her mother’s grip tighten on her shoulder at the mention of her brother with cigarettes again. Walburga shrugged her off and headed to the front parlour with a huff.

***

Hours later everything had gone well. Walburga was proud of herself she had not made a fool of herself as the new Lady Black. There was laughter and chatter between the whole of the Pureblood society and, as suspected, no mud-bloods, half-bloods, or traitors had attended.

Walburga greeted everyone by name; to be polite. She danced gracefully this time (as the bruises, cuts, and welts from her mother had reminded her) with the various partners she had taken up as they moved throughout the ballroom. She felt confident, proud, and more-so like a lady than she had when she woke up that morning.

Walburga jumped in her skin when her brother surprisingly came out of nowhere then grabbed her by the wrist.

Alphard spun his sister into his embrace. She grimaced at his breath.

“You smell like you had gone and drunk all of our liquor." She took his hand and placed a hand on his shoulder as they began to waltz. "Where are the children, brother mine?”

“Sleeping, darling. Don’t you worry.” He smirked that notorious Black lineage smile that most everyone in their family wore proudly. “Congratulations, sis.” He kissed her on the cheek, spinning her twice before dipping her. “I am afraid I may have to leave permanently.”

“What?!” She hissed quietly, pulling herself up before darting her grey eyes around the vast room to make sure no one around her heard. “You cannot! Must you?”

Alphard brought the rhythm back before they tripped over each other. “I cannot handle mother any longer. You ratted me out, it was worse than last. I am an outcast here and you know it.”

“Who will help with Bella and Andie?” Walburga asked, politely declining another dance as her brother spun her again.

“Mother said you are to take them until he is of age. By then, though, he may just not be a suitable father.” Alphard bowed to her as the next symphony started. He grabbed her two hands in his, pulling her to him before kissing her forehead. “I love you.” Alphard handed her off to the male that had asked her for her hand last time before fleeing and never looking back.

____________

As the evening drew on, Walburga grew tired and tipsy. Several people had left or retired to the hallway to have a proper chat. As she danced with Orion, she noticed William Lestrange and her mother talking in a corner.

“Pass me to him, please. I need to get closer to my mother.”

Orion obeyed and took the next lady into his arms. Walburga heard her congratulate him as she moved through the sea of people before landing in the arms of a man that was close to her mother.

“...such a beautiful bride. People will talk for years to come. You must be satisfied.”

Walburga’s heart filled with warmth. She worked hard for tonight and was glad she could stay focused on being poised and graceful all night; careful to not trip during the dances. Walburga focused her grey eyes on her mother to listen on what she was going to say. She waited all night to hear a good thing from the person who gave her life. All she wanted was approval. To make her mother proud by being the best lady. It seemed all throughout childhood her mother nagged on her for not being the best. Finally she could be accepted!

“That girl is a lost cause!” Her mother bit out at William. Irma’s face twisted into a sneer as she gripped her wine glass tight. “No grace, frighteningly terrifying, always muddying her dresses and chasing after her brothers! I should curse her to having a son just like Alphard with mannerisms like her so she at least knows the pain I went through! Months of work and she still can’t sit upright, walk poised, or stand with dignity! Forgets proper etiquette and table manners! Was troublesome until she went off to Hogwarts, I was glad to be rid of her! Now she’s off troubling someone else and for that I couldn’t be happier!”

Walburga felt like someone had just stabbed her in the heart.

William bowed down and kissed Irma’s hand. “I am all the more impressed by what you have achieved.”

Her mother smiled sweetly. “Thank you dear, I do what I can. No matter how ungrateful that little brat can be.” Irma ended bitterly.

Walburga thought that her mother. No, Irma. Had always put family first, no matter what.

Toujor Pur, after all.

It was like something had lifted and now all that stood before her was a wicked bitter hag full of jealousy.

I don't need her after all.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered to the man, biting back her tears as she let go. “Thank you, but I-I can’t, can’t be here right now.” She hiked up her dress and fled the ballroom. Toujour Por meant something to her.

I will teach the true meaning behind being pure, keeping the family pure, having magic coursing in our veins, Dark Arts, and family first always- no matter what! None of this behaviour my mother engages in any longer!

***

A few years later Walburga fell pregnant. All she wished for was to give her husband a healthy son to be their heir to stop the gossip, ridicule, and outcasting on how people noticed how hard it was on her. How they thought she actually could not fit the role. Her wishes had not come true. Her first pregnancy had been twin girls; Syfrin Ophelia - later to be Sirius Orion - and Rosier Azalea II. However, she had some faith to her first born...

Walburga held her daughters close to her as Orion stood beside her. "No heir, yet, Camelia."

"Syfrin is a boy."

"That is clearly a girl. Well, Camelia?" Orion started, taking their first-born in his arms. "What odd things run in our family?"

Walburga smiled. "I am not sure, why?"

Within two years, she had two more kids. One boy; Alastair Rigel, later to become Alice Fleur. One girl; Regina Adelene, later to be Regulus Arcturus. All four of them tested her nerves just as much as the first four. She never got a full night’s rest again, but she never lost her patience.

Syfrin/Sirius was lively, clumsy, challenging, and loud like Bellatrix, Rosier, and Alastair/Alice where as Regina/Regulus was patient, quiet, obedient, and carefree like Andromeda, Pandora, and Narcissa.

It was too much; her brothers drank themselves to death, Alphard disowned for being gay, Cygnus only having kids because of their family and then her having to adopt them. People within their circle ridiculed them because there were no boys and that Cygnus murdered Druella just hours after Pandora and Narcissa’s birth. They then ridiculed her for having no suitable heir and taking in his daughters.

As her children grew, she repeated ‘Toujour Pur’ and provided constant reminders that muggles were mud-bloods and they were to stay away from them for they were filthy. Walburga would tell them the world was hurtful and cruel. That family came first always.

Her first-born never seemed to understand. They pestered and tested Walburga with inappropriate questions. They seemed unable to sit in a chair right, refused to sit up straight or hold a fork correctly and ate everything with their hands. No matter what Walburga did; this kid was just as clumsy as she used to be. They were a challenge.

She would never hit, she would never yell. Before she lost her temper, she would walk away then come back and talk to her kids about the problem and what she expected. She promised herself she would never become her mother. She would cry herself to sleep at night thinking Syfrin/Sirius would never pick up on her teachings. She was afraid Regulus would follow in their footsteps even though he was currently following hers. Her adopted daughters also did better than Sirius.

*1971

Walburga was glad when she sent Sirius and Rosier off to Hogwarts. Their prefects could finally show them the right way. Andromeda, Bellatrix, Narcissa, and Pandora would be there for a few years and they would listen to them. When the first owls arrived from Bellatrix, that is when Walburga knew something was up.

Orion stood beside her, sipping his wine. Watching as she picked up the letter. Her hands shook as she looked at Bellatrix's handwriting.

Everything she had built, everything she had taught him… it all went up in ashes.

Walburga slammed the letter down as she stormed off to the kitchen.

“Not a word.” She said sternly at the cooks as she approached the cupboards and retrieved the plates. She took them to the cellar where she smashed them against the grey brick wall until there weren’t any left. As she looked at the damage, she sank to her knees and screamed with tears streaming down her face.

Walburga wanted to die, or even murder her daughters when they were born. All they had done since they conceived them was make her life burdensome and painful. Ever since the day they were born, they were a traitors to the bloodline. She was ashamed they were even hers. They had sorted her son and only chance of a good male heir into Gryffindor.

Walburga saw it was coming.

She had one chance left to make things right; Regina.

Her youngest. Obedient, calm, collected, and poised. Never clumsy, boisterous, or rude. A proud Slytherin. Top marks in Dark Arts. She even became a Death Eater after Bellatrix. She understood it was pro-muggle activism keeping knowledge from proper witches and wizards and supported it. Regina never disappointed her even though she was not a suitable heir. She could give a suitable heir, though. Walburga still worried when she hung with her sisters and continued to look up to them.

*1976 September

It was another Summer with the kids home from Hogwarts. Walburga dreaded going to the ball with her dysfunctional family but she couldn’t afford to stay away.

Where Regina/Regulus accepted dance requests and focused on finding a suitable heir, Sirius had not and smoked cigarettes in a corner.

Regina/Regulus had worn a black sparkling ball gown despite the arguing that had followed when Walburga presented it to her; "Why won't you wear this dress?" Walburga asked, hands on her hips as she stood in the middle of Regina's room. Regina/Regulus shrugged. "I do not feel comfortable with them, mother." Walburga folded her arms. "I have come to terms that you are not a suitable heir but that you can give me one, and now you are telling me you would rather wear a suit over a dress? Do not tell me you are like your sister and want to be a man!" Regina/Regulus hung her head, toying with the tulle fabric of the ball gowns skirt. In the end, Walburga won. Whereas Sirius wore a suit with a leather jacket. Which had also ended in a fight. She wasn’t even trying to look for a dance partner or suitable future husband. People made jokes that she was a wizard interested in wizards or even a witch interested in witches. *sometimes they could not tell which gender Sirius wanted to be* Walburga knew who her friends were though; mudbloods and traitors. She didn’t even try to keep his interests or relations with all those harlots and men a secret. For reasons unknown to her, she had recently just stopped doing that in the past year.

I need answers.

Because of her children, Walburga was an outcast. No one talked to her. It forced her to interact with the only people she could; her brothers and her husband. That is where she currently stood, with her family, waving away her brother’s smoke clouds as she tried her hardest to ignore the nausea that clawed at her throat as her husband and brother just kept drinking.

She knew the three of them were trying to forget about Syfrin/Sirius.

Alphard, however, was not. He was proud of Sirius for being himself and acting like him; looking up to the "cool" Uncle.

Walburga had hated her brother ever since the day she had dug into him before he had left her house…

FLASHBACK 1961

Walburga was holding two month old Regina/Regulus as she stormed downstairs to the servants’ quarters where her brother slept in the extra room spending his days drowning in whiskey, smoke, and stupid muggle painting.

“I will not have my children raised around a smoker! What is all this?!” She gestured to his canvases and paintings, kicking one down and stomping on it. “I want you out of this house by sundown! You don’t belong here anymore, you fag! My son does not need this kind of influence! He will marry a weathful, beautiful, young dame and give us wonderful heirs for years to come! In order for that, you must leave!”

“I will still be at the dances and family gatherings as mother insisted when she disowned me and sent me to you, but fine! I’ll leave this bloody house for all I fucking care! Have fun raising eight kids on your own!”

END FLASHBACK

When Alphard glanced at Sirius, it ignited something in Walburga. She grabbed him by the collar and dragged him off to a nearby powder room. She threw out the girls giggling inside and locked them out before putting up a silencing charm and glared at her brother.

“Have you been seeing my daughter!?” Walburga seethed, crossing her arms.

Alphard took another drag.

She pulled it from his hand, throwing it in the ashtray before pushing her brother toward the counter with her hands around his neck.

He winced as she pushed him further into the countertop; the smooth edges pushing painfully against his spine. Alphard watched her eyes turn almost black. There was no more grey colouring or happiness in Walburga. She had turned cold, like their mother. There was no turning back from that for a Black…

Once you go black, you never go back.

“I will ask again.” She growled. “Have… you… been… visiting… my… child?!”

“They have been coming to me.” Alphard choked out. His throat was on fire and his wrists were hurting from squeezing the counter. “They had questions.” He choked out. “I answered.” She squeezed tighter. His vision blurred. “Stop!”

Orion ran in and yanked her backwards. “Honey, stop!” He yelled, squeezing his hands into her shoulders. “You are going to kill somebody!”

Walburga shoved Orion away. “What do you fucking care?! You are just drinking away your life with my brother, ignoring your children like always! I’m stuck taking care of eight kids, one of which wants nothing to do with our family and our traditions!” She grabbed her husband’s wrists, her voice gone dark as she spoke her next words. “You do anything you can to stop her from burrowing further into this rabbit hole of hers!”

“You have been making him hurt your son already! He has bruises, scars, and told me a complete list of spells yo-”

“SHUT UP!” Walburga screamed, slapping her brother. “YOU did this to her! I told you to stay away from her, no matter how persistent she got!”

“He is fifteen!” Alphard argued.

“AND DOING EVERYTHING YOU AND CYGNUS DID WHEN YOU TWO WERE YOUNGER!” Walburga screamed even louder. Alphard was right… Walburga was too far gone now. “She is a disgrace. An outcast, a traitor, a freak! I should have just killed all of them.” She glared at her husband. “I am taking the children home.”

*nine at night*

Walburga was quiet the rest of the evening as she dragged her children home.

Sirius was laughing, Regina was glaring at him, and Bellatrix was complaining.

Why is this my life?

Once they got home Regina/Regulus went up to bed, the girls went outside to giggle about boys. Walburga grabbed her wand and aimed it at Sirius’ back.

Petrificus Totalus!

“You are the worst thing that has ever happened in my life!” She circled her then gripped her chin and tilted it up so their grey eyes met. “Your father has done enough, it’s my turn! I cannot save it any longer, I-” she swallowed thickly.

Say it, you cannot stand loving someone like this anymore. He is not your son. Never has been. Sirius stared at her as she tripped over her words.

Her leather jacket angered her, the long hair she insisted on wearing as a boy, his tattoos she knew she had *very unladylike*, her piercings, her “friends”, her choice in being Sirius over Syfrin, ending up in Gryffindor and being portrayed as a boy by the castle, teachers, and students. She slapped Sirius after letting go of their face.

“I hate you.” She spit it out; literally.

Walburga grabbed the broom from the kitchen and went back to the entrance between kitchen and living room. Her heart pounded, ached in her chest, she did not want to do this to her baby but she had hurt her. She needed to be shown not from her father how much pain she put to her mother, but by Walburga herself… the person she hurt.

“I hate you.” She repeated, tears stinging her eyes.

She could not take it anymore. Sixteen years of humiliation, pain, disobedience, talking back, shouting, screaming, yelling, smashed family heirlooms and antiques, broken books, smashed walls, knives through the tables and walls, fork marks in the table. Walburga’s blood ran cold as she brought the broom up and brought it down hard on her child.

Sirius fell to her knees, biting her tongue to keep from screaming out. Walburga picked her up from under her armpits and brought the broom down on her back once more. “I hate you, you are a disgrace!”

“A faggot like your bastard Uncle!” The broom came down on Sirius' shoulder blade with a deafening crack.

“Hanging out with Mudbloods!” Walburga swung the broom again.

“How dare the fates let you become a bloody Gryffindor! You can have suitable heirs as a girl!” She hit Sirius with the broom three more times with the last sentence.

Again and again, the broom came down on her child. With every hit, Sirius winced. Sirius had disrespected her with everything she was. Walburga had done her best to never hit or yell. She now had enough and could not take it anymore. She poured all her anger and disappointment out on her child. The one person who should have been her heir!

“I hate you! Is that through your skull yet?!” She screamed, pointing her wand at Sirius. “Crucio!” Sirius arched her back, screaming vociferously. Walburga could feel the strength grow within her as she punished her kid.

She struck again… her neck, her hands. Walburga smiled as she watched Syfrin draw away from the sting as she trembled. Walburga could only guess it was from the crying.

She grabbed his long curly hair and pulled her head back to meet her dark eyes. “I… hate… you…” Walburga seethed.

Sirius squeezed her eyes shut, warm tears trailing down her face.

Walburga smiled the Black lineage smile as she threw her forwards at the coffee table.

Sirius' body landed on the top of the table with a hard thud and a pained moan.

“For so long I have had to deal with you… keep up with you… I had your father do my dirty work because I could not go through with it but I have had quite enough! You simply could not have told how much I hated you through your father, but you figured out how much he hated you. It is my turn. You needed to see how much I truly detested you and I did it all in one go.”

Images of all the times Syfrin acted out, disobeyed, stumbled, fallen, talked back. It fuelled her anger. Syfrin deserve no one… not those friends… not her sisters… nor whoever she was seeing.

“You deserve no one!” She continued beating and cursing at her child until she was tired. Walburga had been waiting to punish them. Now that she was finally doing it, she felt like she couldn’t stop.

Walburga watched her daughter turned potential heir turned to a disgrace weep on the table. Blood seeped through her clothing and onto the floor.

I’ll deal with that later.

Her long hair had become plastered to her sweaty tear-stained face. For the first time in sixteen years, Walburga felt content.

“You can drown in your misery for all I care. Just get up to bed before your father gets home or you will deal with him as well. Might as well stay there so he can do more damage anyway, you deserve it.”

She leant over Sirius as the front door opened.

“Too late.”

Walburga gripped her daughter's hair, pulling at the nape of her neck.

“Did I say you are a faggot? I found letters from your so-called friend. Everything you are doing and have done is amoral! You have always been an outcast, a blood traitor, and disowned. You haven’t been my son for years.”

She looked up to find Orion looming over them. He had heard everything she just said.

Sirius whined as she tried moving away but Walburga pulled her up by her elbows and held her back against her own body. “I’m going to enjoy watching your drunk father do the same things I just did to you.” She growled into Sirius' ear.

*eleven thirty*

Sirius climbed the stairs in weak agony.

His parents were downstairs cleaning up the blood, the evidence, and the smashed plates from earlier.

His sisters had gone up to bed through the basement cellar to avoid the scenery of him getting beaten.

He stood on shaking legs in front of the bathroom mirror, locked inside until he left.

Sirius inspected himself; his left eye was purple and swollen, his lips had cuts and dried blood, some blood was still coming out of his mouth, his hands were bleeding, his back was killing him.

His father had beat him harder than he had in the past. Sirius had two assumptions; he was drunker than usual… or, since his mother had not given his father any instructions, then he had done what he wanted to do.

Sirius hung his head and gripped the porcelain sink as more tears escaped his body. How he even deserved this he hadn’t known. Who was he to stop himself from being clumsy, gay, a boy ninety percent of the time, or uninterested in dark magic?! It was who he was!

Without even looking up, he brought his fist up and smashed the mirror to bits. He spun on his heels and punched the wall above the toilet paper holder; leaving a vast hole in the plaster and wallpaper. It left him feeling elated.

He took out his pocket knife from his slacks and added a few more cuts to his wrists before pocketing it again. Sirius became nauseous and threw himself over the toilet where he threw up blood, his dinner, and some bile. He growled as he flushed it down.

About twenty minutes later, he went to his youngest siblings room. He knocked on the door as he entered. Regulus ran up to their brother and wrapped their arms tightly around his middle. Sirius hugged Regulus tight, kissing their head.

“I love you.” Sirius whispered.

“I love you, too.” Regulus replied. “But you can’t leave.”

“I have to! Did you not hear what was going on downstairs?!” Sirius yelled, gesturing to the staircase outside the room leading to the living room he just left. “Do you not see the condition my body is in?!” He gestured to himself.

“YOU FUCKING PROMISED! YOU WERE THERE TO PROTECT ME!” Regulus had hot tears stinging their grey eyes. “You should not have come in. You should have just left!”

“I wanted to say something before I left.”

“Bullshit.” Regulus growled, grabbing a photo album and throwing it at Sirius’ head. Sirius ducked. “You promised! All you do is hurt us!”

Sirius squeezed his eyes shut. “It's not me.” He choked out, the last thing he wanted was for his brother to hate him.

“NO!” Regulus yelled, punching the wall beside Sirius’ head, baring their teeth. “If you want to leave, then leave!” They whispered through their teeth. Regulus' body shook with adrenaline.

Sirius watched Regulus’ cheeks turn from pink to a burning red. Their sad grey eyes were like daggers to his heart, much more so than his mothers. He had been close to his brother. Sirius shoved Regulus away, causing the youngest heir to stumble back.

“FINE!” Sirius growled through clenched teeth. “I thought I could protect you and get you to follow me.”

“They need me!” Regulus whispered, grey eyes searching the grey carpet below them.

“You do not have to do this. Just tell them.” Sirius pleaded. Regulus glared up at him. Sirius nodded. “Alright. Do not tell me I didn’t try. I love you.” He turned out into the hallway and headed to his room as his heart shattered. No one in this house loved him anymore, so he would just go to someone who did.

“I love you. I’m sorry.” Regulus whispered after him.

Sirius heard them.

***midnight***

Walburga sat happily at the table in the sitting room. Humming, she stirred her tea with a small silver spoon and ignored the loud noises from upstairs. Walburga didn’t care about what was going on. If there was damage, she would have someone fix it later. She knew Saiph would outlash at his punishments. Someone trampled down the stairs. Bumping against something every few moments.

“I’m leaving,” Sirius barked, “And you will not be seeing me anymore. I will not be coming back.”

“I would not want you back anyway.”

Walburga didn’t bother getting up. She sat and watched her son/daughter as he stormed out the front doors. With the slam of the front door, everything felt lighter. It should not have felt nice but it had. Sirius was a Gryffindor, he always had been. He never fit in with their Slytherin house, their Dark Arts, the Death Eaters. That was Regina's job.

Walburga was confused when she heard someone else come running. She stood and entered the living room. “Regina.” She said calmly. Regulus stopped in his tracks, looking up at his mother. “She disappointed us. You know that, right?”

Regulus nodded. “But-”

“You will not disappoint us too, Regina. Got it?” Walburga warned.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Regulus/Regina answered sadly. Walburga didn’t catch her tone as she was too busy pulling out her wand and changing the wards.

“She is an ungrateful brat. I did my best, she still had not listened. Then Hogwarts went and sorted her into the wrong house!” She whirled on Regina, taking wide steps until she gripped her chin, locking their eyes together. “You are still focused on finding a suitable heir, yes?”

Regulus/Regina nodded. Though she was just fourteen, she knew how important marrying wealthy pure-blood men was to her mother. She just could not help how he felt towards a certain someone at Hogwarts or how he felt to his own body. She needed to be on her mother’s good side, no matter how hard it got at times. She could have her fun without her finding out, do her duties as a Death Eater on the side, and still have everything be completely alright when she graduates.

Right?

“I know how much it means to you that this family stays together, but unfortunately Syfrin had other plans.” Walburga would see to it that she would not suffer from her older sisters. She would be seen as the one and only suitable heiress of the House of Black who would hopefully bring up suitable heirs in the future.

Regulus followed her to the tapestry and watched as she pointed her wand at Sirius' name; in which the tapestry and every pure-blood paper had re-wrote istelf to suit who Sirius was when he changed who he was in the family. Regulus intended to do that someday as he watched an intense beam come from Walburga's wand.

With satisfaction, Walburga watched the name of what she thought to be her last rotten spawn become burnt off the family tree.

**1977**

Walburga took a trip to Hogsmeade a week after the kids had gone back to school. She did her best to keep herself out of sight from prying eyes as people would surely talk. She had just wanted to see if she could spot Regulus having a bit of enjoyment for once before she headed to Knockturn Alley to find the ingredients she needed to ward the house from Boggarts and Dementors once again.

She had found Regina/Regulus just moments before she turned toward the alley.

Her blood boiled.

She was with her brother, laughing at whatever Potter was saying! Walburga pulled her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms.

How dare she!

Yet she could not do anything for fear of exposing herself.

Moving on from her disgrace of children, she turned toward Knockturn Alley and right into ‘Cobb & Webb’s’ where she had bumped into…

“Peter?” She questioned. His blue eyes darted around the alley.

What is a sixteen year old doing down here? Isn’t this one of Sirius’ friends?

“Why are you here?”

“I, uh, I’m…” he stuttered. “Sirius doesn’t know.”

“Death Eater, are you?” Walburga thought aloud. Peter nodded.

Why in the whole bloody world did Syfrin become friends with the shyest, drawn-back people? SHE SHOULD HAVE BEEN A SLYTHERIN! At least she would have proper friends that…

Walburga stopped herself and looked at the timid Pettigrew with a sinister smile. She pulled them off to the side and sat him on a bench.

“What are they having you do?”

*1978*

When Regina/Regulus was eighteen, the house became empty and quiet.

Walburga had not heard from her baby in weeks.

She had gotten no letters from her about how Hogwarts was going.

No letters from the Death Eater headquarters.

Walburga had waited for Regina to return for months but she knew by now that she was dead.

The tapestry gave it away.

Regina had been a good girl, she did not deserve the cold hands of death.

*1981*

Now here Walburga was, getting ready for the trial of her firstborn.

She had not seen Syfrin in five years. Walburga refused to attend her wedding to Remus Lupin; the monster, the tainted half-blood. He was just another faggot to deal with. She hated that Sirius had the ability to conceive and bear a daughter with that monster. It left a bitter taste in her mouth that he had even considered the blood-traitor and the mudblood half-blood girl as the child’s Uncle and Aunt alongside her brother. She destroyed Sirius' room when Regulus had become a Godfather to those two’s tainted spawn.

Walburga sensed deep inside she was not getting the full story… that someone was lying to her. If she found out that one of her children lied to her, they would feel her wrath. She could handle punishing Syfrin again, but punishing Regina or Narcissa would crush her spirit even more than it had five years ago when she hurt her eldest son. Narcissa and Regina were the ones who followed their footsteps religiously. Cygnus and some boy named Tom had caused Bellatrix to become too far gone. Andromeda went and married a mudblood Hufflepuff; getting herself disowned.

Entering the courtroom, Walburga sat in the front row. She needed to see everything. A sinister smile crept onto her face as she muttered spells that made them not hear Sirius' cries, as well as whatever she said turn to lies. They deserved this. She had murdered her friends in cold blood and that monster of a husband hated them. Peter was out of the picture, her friends were dead, Remus was hated, outcast, and alone. As soon as Sirius was behind bars in Azkaban,

Walburga was free.

Two Aurors dragged Syfrin/Sirius into the courtroom.

It had only been a few months since she had been arrested and time was not nice to her. Walburga could tell she had not slept, that she had been crying and inflicting pain on himself. It made Walburga happy.

If you had just been in Slytherin, none of this would be happening.

Sirius struggled against the restraints, growling menacingly at the Aurors as they struggled to get him in more restraints. He screamed as they threw Crucio spells at him. “I did not do it! It was not me! Are any of you daft bastards listening to me?! You are all full of bullshit and this is fucking… you all need to burn in fucking hell!”

I used to wash your mouth out with soap for that mouth of yours. Can’t believe someone actually kisses your ashtray, liquor filled, vile mouth and those kids of yours are not terrified of their so called parent; a drunk, smoke and drug addicted, vile parent.

Walburga sat there smirking, her eyes trained on her screaming traitor daughter.

Her cries fell on mute ears.

No one was listening.

She put this on himself.

The more she struggled, the happier Walburga was.

He abandoned his families, his brothers, his friends, lovers, and more.

There truly was no one on her side…

There never had been.

The Wizengamont found Sirius guilty and he was dragged out of the courtroom screaming vile curses and laughing maniacally.

Even if you had complied nicely in a calm manner… impossible in this family… they still would have hauled you off. Glad to be rid of you.

Walburga was still smiling as she got home.

It was unsettlingly quiet with all her children gone, her husband, heiress, and brother dead, and her other brother living off on his own. She put her veiled hat down on her bed.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw something that made her skin crawl.

It could not be real…She despised her! Everything about her mother made her skin crawl and her blood boil.

I refused to turn into her! I did everything in my power to be different!

She turned slowly towards the mirror on her vanity dresser pushed toward the far end of the room.

“No.” She whispered.

She approached the mirror slowly, locking eyes with her own reflection. “No.” She repeated, shaking her head. “No, no, no, no!” She was smiling back at herself with the same malicious smile her mother had when she had beaten her. The smile she knew was plastered on her face when she beat her first-born. She screamed as she punched the mirror; shards of glass rained down on her, the vanity, and the green carpet below.

Walburga found herself on her knees screaming through her tears. She blindly reached for her wand, finding it on her vanity in a pile of glass. She let the shards cut her as she picked up her wand and herself then stormed off to Sirius’ room.

She kicked his door open then stood staring at his destroyed Gryffindor decorated room for a moment. Walburga could feel the tears flowing down her cheeks as she ripped photos of Sirius’ friends and himself off the walls…

“TRAITOR!” She screamed.

She tore posters and banners down, destroyed his bed further and wiped all the makeup and ink pots off his vanity. She ripped his clothes from his closet, wanting to burn the dresses he had stolen from his sisters.

“Faggot.” She growled, storming off to Regulus' bedroom.

Her heart shattered when she opened the door to her youngests' room. There was nothing out of place in the room and everything was neatly in its place, yet there was a weird feeling emitting off the walls of the room. Regulus had kept everything straight and tidy, but something still felt off. Walburga tore through the room as the front doors slammed open. Walburga looked up from where she knelt on her daughter's floor.

“Dementors.” She whispered to herself. Walburga shook her head and continued searching through her child's clothes, journals, and closet. She pried open a hide-away door that hadn’t been shut all the way.

“Lumos.”

Her heart broke.

“Alphard!” She growled.

She stood up from the small painting room Regina/Regulus had made, coming face to face with a painting that was full of emotion. It was gold, green, silver, and orange with streaks of black weaving through the colours.

“No.” She whispered, thinking back to her daughter smiling at James in the pub.

She backed up into her hanging suits. A Gryffindor tie fell from one of the hangers. ‘J.P’ was embroidered on the bottom. She picked it up in shaking hands as she bit her bottom lip. Tears threatened to spill. She could hear the Dementors and Death Eaters below tear through her house but she did not care anymore.

Walburga let the tie slip from her hands as she exited the closet and fell to Regulus’ bed in body wracking sobs.

“When did this happen?” She asked herself as her muscles tensed and her body became numb.

No one heard from Walburga Black after the trial.

Dementors and Death Eaters raiding her house for the locket was all over the newspapers.

They had killed her…

Karma killed her.

***

read here

Feel free to comment your thoughts or questions! I am sorry if it does not make a lot of sense or things are confusing, I just wrote what felt right. Hopefully future chapters will help connect some puzzles.

(Updates might be slow and out of place... bear with me, I work an overnight job)

Next up? Lyall Lupin and Hope Howell.

#marauders era #walburga black #sirius black #sirius azkaban #sirius x lupin #regulus black #remus x sirius

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secretsniper2 · 3 years ago

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Part 2: Wet..

Climbing out of bed I go and brush my hair and then my teeth. A outfit is already laid out by my Master. A latex sleeveless shirt and matching pants, black high heels and a corset. My day will clearly be a tough one for me. Looking around I cannot find anything even resembling underwear. Knowing my punishment would be beyond measure if I were to dress my pussy myself I don my latex outfit for the day. Shirt, then the pants, sliding easily up my smooth legs as my juices made for handy lubricant. Pressing the latex on my pussy I pause. A simple deep breath removes my hand from what I know is forbidden to me now my morning edges are complete. Sitting on the bedside I clip my heels on so it doesn't fall off and put on my corset, only being able to loosely cinch it without help.

“Good morning Master” I say keeping my head low.

“Morning my dear, sleep well i hope, i have a few fun things for you to enjoy today” my Master sounds eager.. its a little unsettling.

#Stories #Custom

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thewraphim · 3 years ago

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sabraeal · 4 years ago

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All That Remains, Chapter 5: The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure [Part 2]

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Written for @claudeng80‘s birthday, and only....a few weeks late! Had this thing not become a BEAST it would have arrived on time but...who doesn’t want a 9K birthday gift?

Perhaps it is lies that make men human.

Ah, you shake your head-- surely not, for man is more than vice, more than our venal sins--

But it is stories that bind us, is it not? Tales that start as words between friends, that then are pulled as taffy in the teeth of those that tell them, that become exaggerated, distended in their telling.

If at the kernel of every story is a truth, then it is one that is surrounded by lies.

Or perhaps that is only what liars tell themselves when they must live with what they’ve done.

Why would you leave Wistal for Lilias?

It was the first question any of them asked-- unless her reputation had preceded her, and then the conversation would shift sharply to Garack and her apprenticeship, to whether all the rumors they had heard about Wistal’s Head Pharmacist were true.

(They had only been disappointed when she didn’t know; she’d hardly been there a year, and though she’d studied closely under her, Garack hadn’t seen fit set aside a lesson to rifle through the rumor mill’s latest)

It’s cold here, Suzu had reminded her that first trip, as if she could forget with how both her heaviest cloak and double stockings that still could not keep out the chill. At least then she’d had a mission she could speak of, an excuse she could throw up a shield against more unwanted questions. After all, all of them abhorred missing data.

It had been harder the second time, when the whole of this golden opportunity had seemed stained with Izana’s touch, had seemed tainted by his test. She’d been lucky those first few days; they’d been less interested in her answer, and more interested in issuing their dire warnings. It gets colder than this, Kazaha had told her, puffed up with his own importance, colder than you’ve ever known.

Then Obi had arrived, coming in with the snow, as he’d told everyone that would listen, and well-- as interesting as Garack Gazalt’s red head assistant was, her mysterious attendant was even more so. At least, for a while, and then they were just another part of Lilias, another pair of heads over a sea of furs.

Still, you must miss it, Yuzuri would say, wistful, it’s so warm there.

I miss the mornings, she had said once, tucked between her and Ryuu at the commissary. Birds would sing me awake.

Too early, Obi had scoffed, wrinkling his nose. They see the sun and go crazy.

Just early enough. The corner of her mouth curved as she met his grin. You just get to bed too late.

Talk to my mistress about that. It’s too much to look at him sometimes when he teases like that, when he pretends it isn’t her that he’s talking about. She’s the one who likes to burn candles at both ends.

Stories are apt to praise the little girls who walk them as kind, as obedient, perhaps even clever should they outwit a sufficiently evil witch or an especially corrupt king. But this little girl-- kind as she was, clever as she was-- was dogged, was stubborn.

Ah, how rare such a thing is, at least in stories. It is a detail to be left out in the telling, to be lost to the years, to be replaced with a kindly figure that gives her wisdom, but now--

Now the tale is fresh, heavy with the truth, and you may know: even with assurances from the adults around her, the little girl did not take the boy’s disappearance lying down, oh no.

She would not suffer losing her home.

Even though it is the birds that wake her, it does nothing for the bleak knot in her belly, only grown tighter as she’s slept. Or rather, as she didn’t; her mattress may be feathers and her sheets may be silk, but neither were any help as she lay there, finding faces in her canopy.

Still, the morning will not wait, not even for a princess. Her hours are full, from sunrise to moonrise, and on most nights, beyond. If she means to keep pace with her promises, she has to start early.

A woman of proper standing would have a maid to dress her-- no, a woman meant to be Zen’s wife would have a team of them to do her entire toilette, but Shirayuki has only herself. A pharmacist’s purse was nothing to sneeze at, but it didn’t pay the way an estate would, and even if she could afford the expense--

Well, Kiki dressed herself. There was no reason she couldn’t either, not when she was already in the practice of it.

“I’m not wearing court dress,” Kiki reminds her, mouth canted kindly, when she sees the state of her morning gown, hook and eyes flapping open like a wound down her back. “They aren’t meant to be put on alone.”

“That’s what Haruka said, too,” Shirayuki murmurs, hands braced on her vanity.

In the mirror, Kiki’s brows raise. “You had Marquis Haruka talk to you about your toilette?”

“Against his will,” she assures her, breathless, before she realizes what that sounds like. “I mean, not that I-- he was berating me--”

Kiki holds up a hand, lips quivering. “I can picture the scene.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks heat, glowing pink in the glass. “Of course.”

“I’m nearly done.” Her fingers are nearly as deft as Obi’s, making quick work of the horde of hooks. “Since I’m back here, is there something I could put in your hair?”

“Oh! If you don’t mind.” Shirayuki reaches out to where she keeps her clips, flipping open the chest, and--

And they lay next to each other, stark against the pale velvet: her hairpins. The ones Obi had given her. Her hand shakes as she brushes against the carved flowers of one, against the smooth tassel of the other. She has a box of combs as well, bought on her travels under Obi’s urging, and--

“Is there any news?” She wishes she could sound brighter, less worried, but--

You don’t know anything about me, Miss.

--but despite all Zen’s assurances, this knot in her gut only sinks further, heavier with each passing hour.

Kiki hisses, fingers slipping on a clasp. “No,” she says finally, hooking it with a violent jerk. “Not yet.”

Her heart clenches, ribs squeezing as tight as any corset. “Ah.”

Kiki lifts her gaze, meeting hers in the mirror. “Don’t worry, it’s only been a night.”

“Oh, right.” Still, the tightness in her chest doesn’t ease, doesn’t let her breathe easier. “They probably need-- time. To search.”

“Yes.” Kiki’s gaze drops, fixing to the last clasp. “Exactly. Did you find what you wanted?”

Shirayuki stares at the hairpins, the best she has--

Shouldn’t Master be helping you with this, Miss?

And closes the box.

She turns to Kiki, smile bright, tight. “Why don’t you just pick out one of my combs? Any will do, I think.”

It is not that the girl was not trusting-- for all girls in these stories must be trusting to a fault, must first fall for the lies meant to keep them safe-- but it was only that unlike other before her, she trusted herself as well.

The boy was her home, a part of her. Just as she might step through the door and know that there was still an ember smoldering in the hearth, she knew that something was wrong with the waiting, with the way those around her would say, he will come back on his own, he only needs time.

One does not need to see smoke to know a fire burns. And the girl did not need to prod wounds to know her boy was hurting.

Kiki cannot come to her every morning, she knows-- if Shirayuki were a princess in more than aspiration, she might be able to merit a countess as a guard, but as little more than a pharmacist living off the goodwill of the crown, she knows the assignment has caused tongues to wag, and not just below stairs.

Good, Obi would say, about time all those fancy nobles started guessing what you’re worth, Miss.

That would bring a smile, usually; as uncomfortable as this sort of attention was, Obi always made it sound exciting, as if each drawn eye was an accomplishment. As if every turned head was a coup.

But he’s not here now. And who lays beyond her door--

“Mitsuhide!” she gasps, glad she chose a gown she could close herself. “Are you with me today?”

“For a while, at least.” He smiles, stepping closer to loom pleasantly over her. “You’re looking well today.”

--Often sees only what he wants to see. Or, maybe, speaks only what she wants to hear.

“Do you think so?” she ventures, searching his face. Sleep has not come easy these past few nights, and though she knows she must, at some point, lose consciousness in order to wake, she remembers none of it. No moment where she dozes off, no burst of restfulness when she opens her eyes, no dreams.

Though perhaps that last is a mercy.

“Of course!” His smile is earnest, crinkling the corner of his eyes. “You’re practically glowing.”

Her smile is tremulous, but she manages to hold it, even if just for a moment. It’s enough to please Mitsuhide, which is what matters. “Thank you.”

He turns, offering his arm, and she nearly takes it, hand hovering over the dark cloth--

Dark cloth that isn’t wool, oh no, but lighter stuff. Cotton, perhaps, or a stiff linen. Summer fabrics. Obi had been wearing them weeks ago, and Haruka chided him for being too early, that the palace guard wouldn’t change over until the equinox--

“Is there any word?” The words stumble off her tongue on wobbling legs.

Mitsuhide blinks, eyes wide and brown and guileless. “Come again?”

“About Obi,” she presses. “Have they found anything yet?”

“They?” he murmurs, brow furrowing, but a moment later-- “Ah, you mean-- ah--?”

“The men Zen sent out to look for him.” She lays her hand on his arm, fingers clenching in the cloth-- cotton, she was right. “They must have news.”

“Oh, ah...” He clears his throat. “No. I haven’t heard anything.”

His hand engulfs hers, and oh, she hadn’t realized she had been gripping him so hard. Her fingers ease, smoothing the wrinkles they left.

“Shirayuki,” he rumbles, “I know you’re worried.”

Her throat is too tight to manage anything more than a squeak.

“Zen will take care of it,” he tells her, no doubt dogging his voice. “And I’m sure that-- that--” his gaze slips off her, fixing across the hall-- “I’m sure Obi will be back any day now.”

Ribs squeeze tight, her breath trapped in her lungs, and oh, how she wishes she could believe that, how she wishes he would just drop down onto her balcony like he never left, but--

You don’t know anything about me, Miss.

She can’t.

“After all, it’s hardly been a week,” he continues, confidence limping.

A week. Shirayuki’s mind whirls, starts counting the days, but she stops herself. She knows well enough how long it’s been; there’s no need to do the unkindest arithmetic and find the difference between that and when they’d told her.

“Right,” she says instead, plastering on a smile she does not feel. “Any day now.”

The girl is dogged, is determined, but in the end-- she is just a little girl.

Have you seen him, she would ask, did you see him when he left?

The townsfolk would only look at her with pitying eyes, would only shake their heads. He is gone, girl.

Then I will find him, she would say, and the townsfolk would sigh, would grimace, would tell her, it is time to accept it.

It is not any man that she knows the next morning.

He’s young, dark haired with an oval face, the same as so many guards at Wistal. She knew nearly every man on Lilias’s walls from walk alone, from veteran Jirou-- always a sergeant and never a commander, just the way he likes it-- to fresh-faced Hiro, only recently given his pike and hat. But here-- well, Obi had not been so involved with the guard in Wistal, save to avoid them.

No name comes to her. With the spray of freckles over his nose and the roundness still in his cheeks, he could not have been more than a recruit when she headed north, probably assigned to one of the lesser-used gates or sent to guard doors.

“My lady!” he gasps, bowing his head. “I’m to be your escort.”

Her smile stiffens, pulling tight like pressed paper. Perhaps she had been too generous with his age-- he was more likely one of the lanky boys hanging off the gate, rather than one of the young men guarding it.

“Oh,” she manages, poorly burying her disappointment. “T-thank you.”

Who does he work for? Her hand tightens on the door, the faint lilt of of Obi’s voice drawing her short. He had always been so much better at this game that her, plucking out which overtures were insult or ingratiation. Without him in her ear, she’s playing this game half-blind, never calculating the angles soon enough for safety.

Still, he is a young guard, surely too new to be in anyone’s pocket, and Izana was always so careful with the men that surrounded the royal family--

“Just for the morning!” he assures her. “As a favor to Lady Kiki. She’s busy this morning, my lady.”

That answers that question handily. “Oh. Well. I suppose...that’s fine.” She pulls the door closed behind her. “Do you know Kiki personally?”

“Hardly,” he tells her with a humble flush, falling into step just behind her. “My father is a tenant of Seiran. I didn’t even know she knew my name.”

Shirayuki’s smile settles easier on her face. “But you knew hers.”

“Everyone knows Lady Kiki,” he says, hushed and reverent, and oh, does Shirayuki recognize that breathlessness, that wonder. Even now it would catch in her chest when the light captured Kiki in just the right moment, like one of those paintings where ancient goddesses emerged from the sea or decapitated faithless kings. “She’s magnificent.”

She hums, smothering a smile. “Have you been in Wistal long?”

“The last three seasons,” he says, as if Wistal has anything other than this eternal summer and a slightly more mild winter. “They say I’m almost ready for the Poet’s Gate, if I want a little more bustle in my day.”

The Poet’s Gate. There’s a pleasant ache as she remembers those early days, as she remembers the two guards who would open it for her if she only asked-- Kai and Shiira, a bare recruit and a man hardly a handful of years his senior, both always greeting her with a smile. She hadn’t seen them since she’d returned; Obi had laughed when she’d mentioned it, worried, that first week.

They’re both veterans now, he’d told her, smile fondly curving a corner of his mouth. They won’t waste them on gate duty. Probably have plum assignments in the court, by now.

She means to ask about them, about whether he has heard where life and duty have taken the men who were kind to her before she earned her place, but instead--

“Have you heard anything about Obi?”

Heat floods her cheeks, but that is a familiar betrayal. That her mouth and mind no longer obey her, that she’s so liable to spit out her first thought with no warning--

That is new. That is worse.

Still, the boy only blinks. “Obi, my lady?”

“Sir Obi.” The title is odd on her tongue, like a shoe slipped on the wrong foot. “Zen-- His Highness sent men out to look for him a few days ago. I thought you might have heard something, seeing as how you live in the barracks.”

And guards are more loose with gossip than fishwives, Obi would say with a wink.

His brows draw down, mouth bowed in confusion. “Is Sir Obi some kind of nobleman? An exile, or something?” His eyes light as he adds, “An outlaw?”

Shirayuki can only stare, a terrible foreboding crawling in her gut. “N-no! Sir Obi is a guardsman-- or at least, he was, before. Now he’s a knight of the Royal Circle.”

The boy’s interest wanes. “Oh, no, haven’t heard anything about that. Not too strange though-- the knight’s circle tends to take care of their own.” His mouth rumples thoughtfully. “Though I haven’t heard of any of them missing, of late. Or anyone being sent out after them.”

“But the search,” she presses, the foreboding’s claws sinking deep into her belly, “you’ve heard of that, haven’t you? At least from the men who have gone out?”

Still he looks at her, uncomprehending. “My lady, I don’t know any that have.”

The girl has known kindness before.

Kindness was a hand in the market, leading her home when she was separated from her grandparents. It was the basket of food on her doorstep when they died, still warm from the oven. It was a dexterous hand deep in a rose bush, untangling branches so they might grow straight, might bloom in their season.

It had never before been the man who said, He will not come back, for it was the the river that took him, and he has drowned.

But honesty is its own kindness, in its way. Even when its message is cruel.

“You are distracted.”

Shirayuki blinks, and it’s only then that she feels the liquid at her wrist, thickly winding down her palm. Her toast sits outstretched in her fingers, forgotten, egg yolk dripping on her hands, her cuffs, the table--

“Oh!” She drops it, alarmed, onto her plate. “I’m-- I’m sorry, I just--”

“You weren’t paying attention,” Haruka admonishes gruffly, handing her a serviette. It’s a lost cause; the yolk may come off but it leaves a runny yellow blotch on the cotton. Unsalvageable, according to the court; ripe for the garbage.

She frowns. Maybe she can convince them to just replace the cuff; she’d heard just the other day that lace was soon to be out of fashion anyway.

The marquis grips her elbow, guiding it away from her tea. “You’re still not paying attention.”

She blinks. “Did you just reach across the table?”

He settles back into his seat, dabbing absently at his mouth. “Only to save the wash-maids their scrubbing. They’ll have a hard enough time with what you’ve already spilled, let alone adding to it.”

Her cheeks flare with heat, but she keeps her hands in her lap, worrying at the cloth there.

The marquis grunts, setting down his fork. “I see you have no intention of putting your concerns aside and dedicating your attention to the lesson.”

“No! I mean, yes! No, wait, I mean--” she shakes her head-- “I’m trying.”

With a sigh, he places his napkin on the table, shifting his plate away so that he may fold his hands above it. “What could weigh so heavily upon you that you cannot make it through a single egg?”

“Nothing,” she promises. “It’s just...”

Haruka raises his brows, as encouraging a gesture as she’s ever seen from him, but--

But to say she’s worried about Obi, that he’s run away and he won’t come back, that perhaps she’s chased him away--

Well, to a man like Haruka, she might as well be complaining about the dishwasher in the kitchens, or a hound in the kennels. A bodyguard should be beneath a princess’s notice.

Her mouth thins. Besides, that’s only half of the concerns she’s been wrangling with these last few hours.

“Zen told me that he would-- he would handle something.” Every word wobbles under its own weigh as it stumbles from between her teeth. “But it seems that he might not have...that he didn’t...”

The marquis clears his throat with a sharp nod, approving. “It is the prerogative of princes to keep their promises. Or not.” He fixes her with a stern look. “He must do what’s best for the kingdom.”

What’s best for the kingdom. The words rankle, rattling her right down to her bones. Obi was his aide, his staunchest ally, his friend--

“It is what’s best.” Shirayuki can do no arithmetic where Obi does not benefit Clarines, and that Zen might-- that Zen could-- “He knows that.”

Haruka lifts a shoulder, a careless shrug so like the Izana’s she nearly shivers from the chill. “Then perhaps he has been kept from keeping it. He is, after all, not the highest power in the kingdom.”

It’s tempting to believe; Izana often relished his role as a caltrop to their happiness, adding bizarre twists to his expectations that left Zen scrambling to meet them. But still, still--

“No.” If there is anyone that can do the complex calculations of loyalty and risk, it’s Izana. “I don’t think he would have stopped him. Not for this.”

“Then perhaps it is a lack of time,” Haruka offers, begrudgingly helpful, “or the resources. Or perhaps--” he hesitates, sending her a long look-- “the will.”

Her breath gasps from her, a palpable hit, and she doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to think Zen wouldn’t believe finding Obi is as much of a priority as her, but--

There’s no reason to get so upset. It’s not odd for Obi to disappear with no explanation.

“Then why would he tell me he would?” She wishes she could keep the raw edge from her words, the accusation. “He must have done something. Kiki and Mitsuhide both said that he...”

Her words dry up at the pitying look on the marquis’ face, gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual stony expression.

“Not that I care to insert myself into your petty concerns,” he says, his tone thick with disinterest, “but it would behoove you, as a princess, to have a keen eye for who is most loyal to you, and who is most loyal to your husband.“

She blinks. “But--”

“It would be a mistake of the highest order to believe they are the same thing.” He gives her a long, meaningful look. “Kingdoms have fallen from such folly.”

Trust is a strange thing, is it not? It is a badge of honor, freely given. It is a privilege, hard to earn.

Doubt is easier; it lives with us, a tenant that never leaves, feeding our darkest thoughts and deepest fears. It is so easy to glut oneself on uncertainty, on indecision, and yet--

And yet we will fight hardest when trust is on the line. Even with the bleakest evidence, we will beg for one slight more, for another single shred of proof until it buries us. Anything to keep from believing it has been broken.

For once trust is lost, it can never be regained.

Her stomach still churns when the marquis releases her from her lesson, his words sitting as poorly as her egg and toast.

He must do what’s best for the kingdom. The words ring loud in her ears, inescapable. Perhaps it is a lack of time-- or of will.

It is only the tweak in her jaw that warns her how tight she is clenching it. This is-- she can’t-- she shouldn’t--

Her hand drops from the door, and she takes a deep, collecting breath, drawn right up from her toes. No matter how much Haruka may pretend he knows about Zen, about his motives, he’s still not him. A man like the marquis may make false promises, but Zen--

She squares her shoulders, glaring down the door. Zen has never not kept his word, not to her. He doesn’t deserve this doubt.

The knot in her stomach squirms. If only her surety could kill it.

It’s Kiki who waits for her in the hall; her lean is casual, one boot placed on the wall behind her as if this were some simple tavern and not the royal palace. For a moment, Shirayuki nearly laughs; few dare to treat the heart of Clarines with such irreverence-- Obi, for one, though she suspects he constitutionally incapable of awe; Izana, for another, though she supposes he has the most right out of anyone to treat the palace like any other home; and--

Zen.

It would behoove you to have a keen eye for who is most loyal to you, and who is most loyal to your husband.

The world tilts, and suddenly the casual lean seems studied, affected. Every line of Kiki’s body is tense, coiled for confrontation, her head hanging heavy and shoulders bowed, as if the weight of her thoughts were a burden. It’s only when she turns to her, smile tilting her lips, that it eases, but--

But even that is a conscious effort, an act that she is performing for Shirayuki’s benefit. Something is wrong, and Kiki doesn’t want her to know.

“Shirayuki.” Kiki peels off the wall, faint, friendly smile in place. “Did you enjoy--?”

“Have you heard anything?” Shirayuki nearly winces at the edge in her voice, at how terse she sounds. “Anything at all?”

There’s a moment, so quick it would be missed were she not waiting for it, where Kiki’s face quivers, where her carefully constructed smile pulls tight like tanning hides. It’s gone the next, replaced by a concern so genuine Shirayuki aches to believe it. “No, not yet. I’m sure that--”

“It’s been nearly a week,” she pushes, “and no one’s heard anything.”

Kiki shrugs a shoulder, too casual. “It’s Obi. He goes off all the time.”

“Not for this long.” She shakes her head. “Not without telling me. What if something’s happened, and he--?”

“You don’t need to worry, Shirayuki.” Kiki lays a hand on her arm, giving her a comforting squeeze. “Obi can take care of himself. If he talks himself into trouble, he’s fully capable of talking himself right back out.”

Her nails bite painfully into the flesh of her palms. “But he shouldn’t have to,” she says, so softly, meeting Kiki’s hard gaze. “We’re his friends.”

Kiki’s grip tightens, but her only answer is a harsh breath, echoing in the hall.

“He was already by himself for so long,” Shirayuki pushes, “we shouldn’t let him be alone again. Not like this.”

“Shirayuki--”

“Did Zen send anyone out to look for him?” she asks so baldly, Kiki rocks back on her heels. “Or was that...”

She can’t bring herself to finish the thought. Not without knowing for certain.

“Zen,” Kiki grits out between her teeth, “is doing what he think is best.”

It’s not the answer Shirayuki is hoping far, and it’s far and away from the one she wants.

“I think,” she says, drawing herself up to her full height, “that I need to see Zen. Now.”

It is said that the depth of a wound has little to do with how it heals, but rather depends on the way that it is left, on the shape of the weapon that made it. Trauma, they say, is the difference between a clean cut and a poor death.

There is no way to prepare for betrayal. Perhaps that is what makes it so hard to swallow, so hard to forgive. It is a ragged knife, pressed to the most sensitive parts.

And no matter how shallow the wound, the rent it leaves is ragged, slow to heal, if it ever does. Traumatic, to be left with a gash that will not close, that can open and bleed again, if it chooses to.

A killer, some might say. Just another type of poison.

In her first days at Wistal, she had heard the complaints: Prince Zen is never in his office. The second prince keeps lords waiting in his antechamber for hours. The prince has no respect for the time of the members of the small council.

It had made her laugh then, small giggles smothered by the collar of her lab coat while Ryuu watched her with wary eyes. Even before the kiss in the tower, before she’d known about his feelings for her-- and discovered her feelings for him-- she’d felt a thrill knowing that she was often the reason he crept off his balcony after tea, or slipped out a window after brunch. He kept important men waiting, but her-- never.

Or at least, not until now.

Shirayuki’s hands are rarely idle.

At Lilias, she had rarely been without a book to hand or notes to make; all too often Lata had remarked on the stack of tomes that seemed to follow her wherever she went, or Shidan complained about the number of notes he found littered outside his office door.

What is it they say, Miss? Obi would tease, his mouth rucked in one corner, brow cocked. Idle hands are wickedness’s tools?

She’d given up on smothering her smiles by then; he’d always known anyway. Then I guess that makes me all goodness.

Ah, he’d sigh, looking over the yard, breath misting on the air. I suppose it does.

Even as a child, she’d been under the bar, playing shell games with the glasses, or in the kitchen, learning how not to cook away from her grandmother’s watchful eye. A busy thing, the townsfolk would laugh.

But a princess is not busy. Or rather-- she only plans to be busy. She doesn’t carry a stack of books under an arm, or have ink spilled on the web between her thumb and forefinger, nor does she feel the need to fidget when she’s left to wait on what amounts to little more than a cushioned stool.

Ten minutes after she sits, she tears the lace on her sleeve. Another five, and she’s lost a button, hidden somewhere underneath her voluminous skirts. Not three minutes later, one of the guards takes pity on her and gives her his handkerchief.

“Hard to ruin a simple thing like this, my lady,” he says with a wan smile, casting a nervous look toward the door.

Shirayuki takes one look at the lovingly embroidered initials in the corner and swallows down, I wouldn’t be so sure.

All told, she waits an hour, the sun sinking under the horizon before Zen leaves his office, half-dressed for dinner.

“Shirayuki!” His eyes pulse wide as he sees her, swinging towards Mitsuhide in question. “I didn’t know that we-- did we have plans tonight...?”

“No.” It’s an effort to keep her voice even, calm. “I needed to see you.”

His mouth flares wide, the weariness gone from his face, as if it had never been. “Oh?”

She takes a breath, bracing herself for the conversation to come, but she chokes on it as he takes her hands so softly between his own.

“I don’t have time tonight,” he says, gentle and pleased, “but tomorrow-- dinner, just the two of us. I promise.”

“That isn’t--”

He squeezes her hands before he leaves, smile wry and tired, and she--

She stands alone, hands still warm from where he held them, the unsaid words caught in her teeth.

Have you seen him? the little girl asks, day in and day out. Have you seen my boy?

He is gone, the townsfolk tell her, as they always do. If it were another girl, this tale might end here; determined and dogged she might be, but everyone has a breaking point. It would be too easy to accept it, to forget, to let her boy become a faded memory from childhood.

But this little girl-- she learns.

Where did he go, then? she asks instead, and the townspeople shrug their shoulders. The city, some guess, or the wood. Perhaps he followed a traveling band, or a woman.

What does it matter? one finally says, cross. What would a little girl like you even do?

Ah, for that is the trouble with stories; they make us think of virtuous, obedient girls, girls who remember to offer old grandmothers lunch from their basket, and remember all the words to the magic rhyme. We forget the most important thing:

Little girls can do anything, so long as they haven’t learned they can’t.

She nearly loses herself in the city.

The streets of Lilias had been as familiar to her as the lines on her palm, their winding paths worn into the very fabric of her heart so that even on the darkest nights, she could make her way back to her chambers with little more than her legs alone. She’d thought she’d known Wistal the same way; she’d lived for months in that little apartment outside the palace, the one with the pot-bellied stove, and even when she’d moved into the dormitories, she’d spent hours perusing the markets for pharmacy stock. But now that she’s here, standing in its night-darkened roads--

Ah, she feels every day of those years away.

Still, she remembers when Obi would stumble onto her balcony, pockets a fair bit heavier than when he’d left her, crowing about the pub just outside the gates where the guard would go to drink away their days. And gamble away their paychecks, it seemed, if Obi’s suddenly flushed fortunes were any indication.

He’d never told her its precise location-- she’d gone to drink with the guard in Lilias, more times than she could count, but in Wistal she’d been reserved, wary about mixing company outside of Zen’s influence, and either Obi had sense her hesitation, or--

Well, or he’d just not wanted to go out drinking with the bookworm who kept him cooped up in the library all day. Still, she knew it wasn’t far from the Poet’s Gate, and not far from the market district, somewhere close to the river that ran through the city, and from there--

From there, she just followed the guards.

The water hungers.

You laugh; how can waters hunger when they have no mouths to eat, no bellies to sate. But that is the thing of it-- waters run deep, and they long to be filled. That is why we talk of pond reflections that reach up to pull children in, or monstrous horses that lure men deeper, or great, terrible beasts that live at the bottom.

The girl knows it, as all clever children do. But she knows just as well-- a beast that hungers can be bargained with, as long as you pay the price.

Hood drawn low, Shirayuki slips in to the steady stream of patrons that saunter into the bar.

The pub is dim, much more than she expects. Wistal has ever been the bright spot in her memory, the city of eternal summer; that it has places where the lamps burn low too gives her pause.

Not for long; she’s the daughter of a bar-- or at least a granddaughter-- and she’s used to these dark places. As a child, she’d sit under the tables, listening to the custom talk, hearing about plans she only half understood and people she would never known. She’d learned words to never say, too, or at least that was what her grandmother had told her, sending her to bed without dessert.

She knows what to look for-- a shadowed table, not too far from where the guards are losing their coin, just close enough to eavesdrop without--

“Ah, sorry,” a man says, shouldering her hard enough to make her gasp. “I wasn’t looking...ma’am?”

He wraps the last word in a question, and with a cursory glance around the room, Shirayuki realizes her mistake. She’s the only one in the room wearing skirts that isn’t also serving drink.

Of course, of course. Her grandparents might have seen both husband and wife for their evening drink, but a place like this, meant for guards who were done with the day but yet didn’t want to face their duties at home--

“Ma’am?” Another man, dressed in the uniform and nearly as young as Ryuu steps up to her. “I think you might be turned around.”

“N-no.” She digs her heels into the floorboards, and the soldier trying to steer her stumbles, jostling her. “I’m right where I--”

“Lady Shirayuki?” The other man stares at her owlishly, and it takes her a full minute to realize that if she made the cheeks rounder, the skin more freckled--

“Kai?” She grips his wrists, relief nearly choking. “Kai. I’m so glad to see you.”

He blinks, staring down at where she grasps him. “Ah, of course, my lady. I’m glad to see you too. Been a long time.”

“I hope you’ve been well,” she says, breathless, “but also, I need your help.”

There are rules this sort of bargaining, to gaining favors from the wild.

They are not like any you know. We live in a world of reason, where one can exchange paper and the promise of precious metals and receive goods in return. But to do so with a wild thing, with a tree or a deer or a mountain or even a river--

Impossible. Their price is fixed, a single thing.

And oh, it is high.

Every little girl has her precious treasure, an item of unfathomable worth. They are secret things, sometimes kept hidden under floorboard or pressed between pages of a beloved book, and sometimes kept in plain sight, for clever girls know that no one will look for what they can already see. And secret these things much remain, for once someone knows of it--

Well, there is a kind of power in knowing what someone loves most, is there not?

This one keeps hers under the bed, peeking out just under the skirt. It is special thing for special occasions, hardly worn save to impress. The red shines when she puts them on, the patent leather hugging to the small curves of her feet, and although some others may have better, may have silk slippers or heeled boots soft as a glove--

Here, her boy had said, hands scarred from thorns, blood smearing into the leather. I found them.

--hers are far more precious all the same.

The table is well lit, and Kai sees to it that the barmaids keep it laden with food and drink aplenty, but--

“This is kind of you,” Shirayuki says, hesitant, “but I need your help.”

“Anything,” he promises, and the men pressed in beside her nod, eyes wide and innocent.

She stifles a sigh. A part of her-- a non-small part of her-- wishes it had been Shiira instead. “It’s Obi. He’s missing.”

Kai goes pale beneath the lights. “Missing?”

She nods, hands gripping the edge of her cloak. “I need to know if you know-- know anything. If anyone has seen anything.”

The men exchange concerned glances, the kind adults do over the heads of little children. Her nails bite hard into her palms. This is what all her years of learning, all her hard work has come to: for everyone to treat her as if she is as unable to hear simple truths as a child.

“Please.” She hates how her voice cracks under the weight of her worry, of her anger. “If anyone knows anything-- anything, I don’t have much, but...”

She places a long, wooden box on the table, and with a practiced motion, pulls the lid open.

“What I do have,” she says, watching the glass bead wink in the light, its orange gloss as alive as fire, “is yours.”

The river is a force of nature, relentless, ruthless, and uncaring, but--

So are little girls, when they have been crossed.

Is it true you took my boy from me? the little girl asks the river, her words lost in its rapids. I don’t have much, but what I have is yours.

It does not answer; water may be ever-changing, ever-flowing, but it waits on tradition.

If I give you my shoes, she asks, brushing their shiny leather for the last time, will you give him back to me?

The men are silent, eyes fixed to the hairpin glistening on the tabletop. Lady Mihoko may say it is the least among her ornaments, lacking the precious stones and fine filigree that most nobles favor, but-- it has worth. The bead may be glass, but the pin is gold, and what it lacks in precious jewels it makes up for in rarity; in all her travels across Clarines and Tanbarun, Shirayuki has never seen another like it.

It only strikes her now that maybe, just maybe, it was too fine a prize for a bare-knuckled fight under a bridge. That maybe--

Maybe it might be more precious than she could have ever known.

Her chest tightens as one of the men reaches out. Here she is, with Obi’s greatest treasure, and she is giving it away.

Maybe it’s no wonder why he left.

The little girl watches as her red shoes float back to shore, watches as they are left so delicately on the bank, and forgets how to breathe.

Did I not throw them far enough? she asks, using all her strength to hurl then into its current. Give me back my boy!

Still they drift back to her, cutting through the river’s relentless flow, now even a drop of water left on them.

Where is he? she asks the river. If he is not with you, then where has he gone?

But that is not the bargain, now is it?

He slides the lid shut. “We couldn’t possibly take this, my lady.”

Another of the guard nods, eager. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Not when you’re looking for Sir Obi,” Kai tells her. “I didn’t see anything, but one of the recruits mentioned something the other night.”

Her heart flutters painfully in her chest. “What did he say?”

“I don’t...” Kai’s cheeks flush, and his eyes won’t meet hers. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes!” She’s breathless, so close to her answers.

“The recruit doesn’t know Sir Obi, not by anything but reputation, so we can’t be sure--”

Her hands dart out, grabbing the close weave of his sleeve. “Kai, please, anything.”

He glances up at the other guards, uncertain, and says, “He saw a man leaping over the walls the night Sir Obi went missing. He thought it was odd at the time, but since they were leaving from inside and going outside--”

“They?”

Kai grimaces. “Yes, they.”

She stares, uncomprehending. “He wasn’t alone?”

“No.” Kai hesitates, looking sick, before he adds, “He was seen leaving with a woman, my lady.”

It is funny how we want answers, how we need them, how we are desperate for them-- but only when they are the one we are looking for.

A woman. The air in this pub is too thin, she can hardly breathe. “I need to stand,” she says, hardly thinking, “please.”

The guards all scramble to move, offering hands to help her forward, but--

He wasn’t alone. He had left with a woman. He had planned to leave--

“I think,” says an all-too-familiar voice, “that this is quite enough.”

Shirayuki raises her gaze, fixing on the cloaked figure before her, on the pale of her hair in the gaslight, on the nigh-black indigo her eyes have become in the shadow, on the pale outstretched hand that hovers, expectant before her.

“Come on,” Kiki says, gentle yet firm. “It’s time to go back.”

It is magnificent, is it not, how we survive?

It is said it is our strongest instinct, the call we cannot refuse. When there is nothing else left to us, when not even thought can be counted upon, it is still in us to live.

A body may have a thousand cuts, a back may be pricked with a dozen arrows, but oh, how we will still stand, how we still take the next step, and then another. How we will walk a mile as we still bleed, if only to to take another breath.

And yet still, it is possible to die of a broken heart. And old man may lose his lover, and when he lays down that night, he never wakes.

A poison, a blade, our longing: it is up to the heart to decide what we can take.

Isn’t it magnificent how it is impossible to know which will be the killing blow?

It is lucky that her arm is tucked so nearly into Kiki’s side as they walk back; Shirayuki’s mind cannot hold a thought for more than a moment, let alone try to trace her steps back through the market.

“He wasn’t alone,” she manages. “Someone left with him.”

Kiki hums.

“A woman.” Her brow furrows. “She must have gone over the gate with him. Do you think that it could be Torou?”

“I couldn’t say,” Kiki replies, tight.

“Do you think that he...” She cannot seem to make the words settle on her tongue. “Do you think that he planned...?”

She cannot make herself say, do you think he meant to leave without saying goodbye?

Kiki is silent, the sort of silent that isn’t empty but heavy instead.

Shirayuki stops, and Kiki pauses beside her. “Did you know he didn’t leave alone?”

Kiki’s mouth pulls thin, and she looks away. “It’s late. We should get inside.”

Shirayuki lets out a long breath, finally glancing at the door before them, and--

“This isn’t my room.” She blinks. “This isn’t even my wing.”

“No,” Kiki says with a long sigh. “It isn’t.”

Not every lie is meant to wound. Oh no, some are meant to be shields, a cushion between our softer parts and the sharp edges of reality.

After all, not all of us are ready for the harsh light of truth. Some of us would prefer to remain blinded all our lives, if only we could keep from hurting.

“I must admit,” the consort says, as elegant on her ottoman as if she were keeping court. “I did think you would last longer than this.”

Shirayuki drops into a genuflect so low her head nearly brushes the carpet. She has dined with princes and traded quips with kings, but there is something about the consort of Clarines that intimidates her as not even Izana does. “Your Majesty.”

“Please, let us not stand on ceremony.” She gestures for her to sit, though there’s no chairs to take, only the floor before her. “Especially since we are so soon to call each other sisters, are we not? Unless--” she darted a pointed glance at Kiki-- “I am to take from this ill-conceived jaunt that you have changed your mind.”

“N-no!” she yelps, taking a step forward, only halted by the mild-mannered brow the consort lifts. She haltingly drops to her knees, tucking her ankles beneath her on the carpet. “I mean, yes. I mean-- I still want to marry Zen. I just...I can’t let my friend--”

“Shush.” She holds up a hand, mouth bent in a kindly curve. “I understand your worry. But I have always been told you are a clever girl, and you are going to have to be much cleverer than this if you wish to marry my brother.”

Shirayuki frowns, annoyance building. “I just went into the market--”

“And into a tavern frequented by commoners,” the consort interjects, cross. “I know that you have, to this point, been far more free to roam as you see fit, but my husband place this restriction upon you for a reason. Surely you must know that a woman of your standing must be entirely above reproach if she wishes to...elevate her station to the degree you do.”

“I’m not trying to--”

“You are,” she is informed. “Perhaps you do not want the title, but Clarines cannot be cloven from a Wisteria, no matter how much you wish it. It is best that you resign yourself to that reality now, if no one else has seen fit to impress it upon you.”

Shirayuki squirms, the carpet rubbing at her knees. “Haruka did tell me something like that.”

“I would expect so. He’s a realist, unlike some.” Haki shifts on her stool, leaning close. “If you are to maintain the reputation needed to make this scheme work, you cannot go haring off to find your friend. Not when Zen has everything well in hand.”

She sits back, gracing Shirayuki with a significant look. “Especially after another man.”

Heat creeps up her cheeks, and oh, that implication knots her dread tighter in her gut, makes it sit as heavy as lead. “It’s not like that. I just can’t sit by if something’s happened--”

“It’s not easy,” the consort allows, with all the weight of someone who knows from experience. “But a princess is not a hound. It is not our place to search.”

Her hands clench tight in her lap. “I can’t do nothing.”

“Nor did I say you should.” The consort’s lips tilt, sly. “When one cannot act themselves, they rely on their people to act for them.”

Frustration wells up in her. “I don’t have people. I only have myself.”

“Come now, you cannot believe that.” She tilts her head, laying a thoughtful finger to her chin. “You have Zen, who in turn has people. People who he is using to find your Obi as we speak.”

Shirayuki darts a glance at Kiki, but she’s inscrutable, as always. “Is he?”

The consort raises her brows. “You doubt him?”

“I...” She doesn’t want to. “The guard--”

“As if my brother would send our guards to find a man of his aide’s caliber.” The consort laughs, so easy. “Did he not promise you he would find him? Give you his word?”

“Y-yes.” She can still feel his hands around hers, the warm way he had looked at her. “He did.”

“Then how can you worry?” The consort smiles brightly. “My brother’s word is his bond.”

“I...” Something twists with her, dark, but she swallows it down. “Right. Of course. Zen is-- handling it.”

The consort nods, business concluded. “Good. Now come, I’ve been told you are struggling with your lessons.”

Oh. She hadn’t been aware that was...common knowledge. “I...”

“It’s only to be expected,” the consort concludes, “most ladies are trained their entire life for this, and you have only just started. But worry not,” she smiles, so warm, “I will help you.”

Shirayuki’s eyes pulse wide. “M-me? That’s...very generous of you.”

Haki’s mouth curls in amusement. “I won’t pretend my motives are not personal. I’ve seen the list of candidates for if this experiment fails, and you are fully the most interesting person out of all of them.” Teeth flash from behind her lips, gone in a moment. “I refuse to have to plan every gala with someone whose most nuanced opinion has been formed over the difference between carmine and crimson.”

Shirayuki frowns. “Aren’t they both red?”

“See, already you are more tolerable than half of them.” She sighs, waving a weary hand. “What you don’t know about this life can be learned. And unlike some, I believe in setting up people to succeed. It must be my soft northern heart.”

Now that her heart is calm, she remembers the enormity of what she’s done. “So you won’t-- I mean, Izana--?”

“Ah, your little jaunt. No, this will be our little secret.” Shirayuki isn’t sure who that shark’s smile is for, but she’s glad it’s not her. “Women must have some, after all.”

But that is the thing, is it not? That which is hidden never stays buried. Reality never halts its siege.

In the end, all we have done is allowed the truth to hone its blade. In the end, it is a betrayal we never meant to make.

It’s funny how we may hurt the ones we love so easily, without ever even trying.

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #All That Remains #snow queen au #this part has gotten a little out of control #i mean it makes sense it's like the longest part of the original story #but there's like one or two more parts to this 'chapter' still coming #we're juuuuuuust getting to the woman who can conjure #like 15K into this part ughhhh #WHATEVER IT'LL BE WORTH IT #ENJOY YOUR PAIN YOU MASOCHISTS

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sabineelectricheart · 4 years ago

Text

The Dull Shine of the Blue Sea Star

Summary: After the Immaculate One dies, Byleth’s Crest Stone heart disappears. Her biological one does not kick up.

Rating: T - Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.

Words: 2300

Notes: This was experimental, I swear. Hopefully a successful one.

Her soft green hair fell back from her shoulders, the wind causing the locks to brush against his cheek. Their hands squeezed together and their fingers stuck in a tight bond. It was a cold, dark evening in Fhirdiad, and everything was silent, as if preparing for the vigils that would inevitably come.

They knew, from monitoring the roads linking the city to the plains inland, that it was not evacuated. If there were no ferries out, which was unlikely due to being only the beginning of Spring and the waters were still too tempestuous, almost all residents were in their homes.

The Emperor stood in front of them, selecting those who would invade the city with her. Sylvain knew the choice was already made, and it was not Edelgard who decided it. This was pure theatre, but he did not mind, or rather, he preferred it so. Such a situation made his girlfriend less of a target for political murder, and he does not feel any particular devotion to his adopted sovereign.

The Black Eagle Strike Force would invade the castle, while him and a few other mages would help evacuating the civilians and fighting any militias that appeared in the narrow, uneven streets. No surprises there.

Ostensively, the redhead was left out of the main attack because he was the one who knew the city best, but he knows the truth. The Emperor does not trust him, and so it would be preferrable if he just kept out of the way while the elites handled the dirty work.

Sylvain had not seen Gautier in over five years. He spent all his time in Adrestia as military police, trying to keep the peace in the home front and order in the army. Faerghus is, effectively as of last night, part of the Empire. Yet, after all this, he is still seen as a foreigner in the Imperial Army, and most importantly, amongst the Black Eagles he risked his life to protect.

Oh, he gets along swimmingly with Dorothea, and has a strange but highly-functioning relationship with Bernadetta, but he absolutely loathes everyone else there. From Ferdinand’s incessant self-aggrandizing to Linhardt’s nonchalant demeanour, he finds his commanders to be absolutely nightmarish.

Though, to be fair, every friend he ever had was now dead and rotting in the Tailtean Plains, so perhaps he was right in following his brain rather than his heart on that one.

He did not follow his brain, did he? He followed his girlfriend. Byleth Eisner was the professor of the Black Eagles, their very beating heart, which was rather ironic, as she did not have a heartbeat of her own. She knew the Church the best, and if she says they are rotten to the core, then he believes it. No questions asked.

Considering Rhea’s behaviour these past few years, the nobleman wagers he was also right on that front.

Byleth’s position amongst the Black Eagles was incontestable. It was clear to see how much the Emperor adored her professor, and most of her former students love her just as much, but this does not translate in her fitting in with them. They were traditionalist nobles, focused on politics and etiquette. They were lovingly dismissive of the simple habits and preferences of a girl that was birthed into bloody militia conflicts.

He gets that, as he did not fit in the ideals of martial grandiose that permeated so thoroughly Faerghus culture. This is why, in fact, they became so attached with one another. Just a pair of misfits banding together. When it came time to transfer classes, he knew he would not feel comfortable amongst the Eagles, either, but he preferred the mercenary over the creepy Crest scholar as an advisor.

The invading strike force was saying their goodbyes to those who would stay behind when the fire broke out. Her heart dropped when she heard an unknown voice speak up.

“Your Majesty!” A soldier alerted them suddenly. “There's smoke coming from every corner of the capital! It seems they've set fire to the city!”

“What?! Damn it, Rhea. There really is no depth you wouldn't sink into.” The Emperor barked. “Everyone, we must commence our attack at once. Are you ready?”

Byleth felt his grip on her hand loosen before completely disappearing. He stood there for a moment, looking down at the girl he was so in love with for the past five years of his short and miserable life.

“I am sorry…” Sylvain whispered. “It is going to be alright. I love you, Byleth.”

Before she could say anything, the nobleman kissed the top of her head before making his way through the crowd. He directed the mounted soldiers to various neighbourhoods, in sights to save as many people as they could. The bugle calls of distress were sounded through the city, as citizens ran towards the invading army as a liberation force.

Fhirdiad was in the middle of a plain, between Tailtean and Itha, but the castle was located on a steep hill on the far northeast side of the city. The tall watching towers of grey stone were visible everywhere from the estuary harbour to the southern gates leading to Arianrhod and Gaspard.

As such, all the people in the city could see the large, grey dragon howling and the large golems that emerged in the upper neighbourhoods. If the invasion was lost, it was clear for all who wanted to see that the Church of Seiros was a monstruous cabal. The war was won either way.

The investiture towards the dragon was slow and painful. The fire was out by three hours past midnight, but by the time the strike force was able to reach the steps to the castle, the morning sun was peeking timidly from the Ogma Mountains.

Sylvain managed to cross the mostly cleared battlefield with rather ease while mounted on his steed, even if the area still mostly burned. Eyes danced along the scene in front of him, deciding to jump into action. He yanked his lance from the holster, trying to assure the retreating Black Eagles a safe escape.

From a few yards, as he fought desperate Church soldiers ready to die for their cause, he could see Edelgard dealing the final blow to the Immaculate One, who fell spilling rich and sickly green blood on the stone paved floors of the formerly Blaiddyd castle.

Before he could ride ahead, though, Sylvain saw as life left the body of his intended, as a spirit that left her body into the skies, fear and dread rupturing through his chest.

It all felt like time froze right then and there for the redhead. Hubert rushed to grip his arm, no doubt wondering that, now that the professor is dead, Sylvain is a terrorist in potential. The cavalier, however, was much stronger than the sickly-looking warlock, and so managed to slip out, running straight towards his lover.

Gripping Byleth in his arms, he dropped to the ground with her, eyes brimming with pain and sorrow. Tears rolled down his cheeks, dripping into her hair as he shook his head. To his side, Edelgard was also crying unconsolably, hanging on to a piece of lace as if it held the deed to the Empire.

“No, you are not allowed, professor.” He bawled like he had not ever since he was a three-year-old boy. “You are not allowed to leave me here like this. I need you. You are all I have and I cannot just let go like this.”

Each hectic battle around them seemed to disappear as they spent their last few moments together. The Gautier heir cried out in genuine pain, watching as his lover’s eyes fell closed in a permanent slumber. Nobody had ever quite seen the young man that deeply hurt, he was not one to ever show his real emotions. A deep feeling of defeat rushed through him, sobbing into the girl’s chest. He hoped he would hear a breath, but the silence only broke him more.

As Hubert rushes ahead to console his sovereign, Sylvain is left alone in the courtyard. He does not know for how long he is there crying, for a moment or for hours, until a warm hand holds his shoulders.

“Come on, Sylvain.” The voice was clipped and restrained, as if holding in deep sadness, but no less melodious. “You need a bath. The soldiers will carry the body inside, and we will be able to give her the proper rites this afternoon.”

“I can’t, Dorothea. Not right now.” He said between hiccups. “Just leave me here for a while, will you?”

“Very well, but don’t mind if I stay with you.” She conceded, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders and letting the tears fall from her shiny eyes.

Sylvain looked up, the dark clouds over Fhirdiad fading away. The war was over and the Church was banished forever. He clung to Byleth’s body, rocking her back and forth as soft begs for her to wake up spewed from his chapped lips. He pulled back for a moment, glancing over her motionless frame when his eyes caught sight of something sticking out of her corset. His fingers slipped into the fabric, pulling out a neatly folded piece of paper, stuffing it into his own pocket.

*_*_*_*_*

Weeks and Moons had passed Sylvain by. He returned to Gautier, to claim his territory back, finding little on the way of resistance. His parents fled to Sreng, and it seems they were not going to be back anytime soon.

By decree of the Emperor, the great commander of the Unification Wars would be memorialized on a monument in Enbarr, where she would have her final rest in august adoration of the subjects.

As such, Sylvain moved to the capital and spent as much of his time in the city as he possibly could. He would visit Byleth’s grave every day late in the afternoon, just before the sunset, leaving a single valerian flower at the headstone.

Sylvain still had not opened the paper he had found in his intended’s clothes, but he often would stare at it at night before he went to bed. Something about it all seemed different one very specific night.

It was the 27th of Horsebow Moon, Byleth’s twenty-seventh birthday and the two had plans to celebrate it in the Goddess Tower at midnight with a dance before sneaking down to the lawn to stargaze. His arms rested against the railing that went along the burial monument, clutching the paper in his hands.

With shaky fingers, the redhead nobleman unfolded the paper, smiling sadly when he saw her beautiful handwriting. He had become so accustomed to her writing, since she would always write him letters, in place of the speech she felt so impeded with at times.

Sucking in a deep breath, Sylvain began to take in each word neatly etched onto the paper.

28th of the Great Tree Moon, Imperial Year 1186

Sylvain,

I hate that I am writing this, but there is always the instance of a defeat against Rhea. If I am being completely candid, I do not think I will be walking out that castle tomorrow morning. Rhea created me, surely she knows of ways to dispose of me just as swiftly.

That being said, I cannot in good conscience leave you empty-handed if something happened to me, could I? I plan to burn this missive if I somehow live, so I must assume something has happened if you are reading this. I feel ashamed to say that the thought of you getting over me makes me sick to my stomach, but I also would feel absolutely devastated if you are sad forever and I do not want you to spend all of your life mourning me.

Smile because it happened, Sylvain, do not cry that it is over. The time we spent together has meant the absolute world to me and I would not trade a second of them for anything in the universe.

Never forget that I loved you more than life itself and I always will. You, Sylvain, will always be the forever owner of my heart. Do not hold yourself back, do not let your heart grow cold. Find someone and love them the way you loved me for all these years. Do not spare your happiness.

With all the love in the universe,

Hot tears welled in the man’s eyes, picking up a small locket on his coat, the locket that Byleth had gifted Sylvain that first Saint Seiros Day, when he promised to be a better man to deserve her affections.

Opening it, his heart warmed at the small tuft of azure blue hair tied in black lace preserved with care inside. His intended had not sat for any portraits, and the Emperor refused, with Sylvain’s support, refused to memorialize her likeness in the tomb. This small relic is all he has to remember the love of his life. This, and now this letter.

Closing the locket and siding the chain around his neck, Sylvain looked down at the pendant resting on his chest. A soft sigh fell from him as he looked out along the large and empty square by the soft rolling of the rivers draining Enbarr, silence surrounding him as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

The young man stepped back from the railing and wrapped one hand around the pendant, holding it close to his heart.

“Happy birthday, Byleth.” His voice was soft as his amber eyes settled on the brightest star up in the sky.

Whether or not they actually killed the Goddess, he knows not, but he hopes he is able to meet her in the Blue Sea Star someday.

*_*_*_*_*

Fire Emblem Masterlist

Three Houses Masterlist

#fire emblem #Sylvain Gautier

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pinkykitten · 5 years ago

Text

The time in Summervale: 2

Warning: none

Specifics: y/n=your name, oc, oc fic, comedy, fluff, angst

People: athela (your mother), edward (your father), ruthy (maid), jakob (duke of linwyn), christopher (prince of linwyn)

Words: 3,560

Summary: In the fictional land of Summervale, 1700, you, the Duchess are made into an arranged marriage.This is the dream of your parents but certainty not the dream of a longing inventor like yourself. You are taught to be a lady but who wants to be a primp and proper lady when you can have fun and be yourself. You need to try to convince your parents this is not what you want or is it? How will it be seeing the Prince of Linwyn? Will you finally change your mind and side with your parents?

Authors Note: sorry if i havent posted in a while or posted this in a while ive just been very busy but im glad i found the time to write this cuz this is like my bby. i worked hard on this idea and the writing. i love how this is going the pace and everything lol this reminds me of the choice game. i hope u guys like this and im sorry if this sucks as always i got my inspiration from this story “the austrian suitor” by @headoverhiddles

“Come again I think I misheard you.” You gulped as you wish this was a nightmare and soon you would wake up.

“I think you heard me right. Today you are meeting your future husband. Prince Jakob, Duke of Linwyn. You met him before.”

“When? Wait that doesn’t even matter-”

“When you were about six years of age. I understand that was when you were a very young girl but you and him played for ages and you both looked so lovely together. This has been my dream ever since that day.”

“It may be your dream but not mine,” you muttered under your breath.

“Oh well please do speak up y/n you know I hate the mumbling.”

“I don’t even remember him! You never even asked me if this is what I wanted. Never got my input on the matter.”

“That is where you are wrong. I did too ask you. A few months ago during dinner I had asked you about him and you seemed to agree to the marriage.”

“Blast my stupid mind. Why must I always day dream?” You probably were thinking about inventions at the time of this conversation and did not remember it.

“Besides it is not your decision whether you marry or not and to whom you marry. It is your parents. That is how me and your father came together. It was an arranged marriage but as you can see me and your father are very happy and we love each other.”

“You two were the lucky ones. I know how this ends mother, and it is heart ache and despair. It is pain and sorrow. To put two people together that know nothing about each other is wrong. It will end in failure.”

“That is why your job as a woman and future wife is to make sure this marriage stays in place and lasts. You do what it takes.”

“So if this marriage fails it is my fault? And the whole world sees it that way?” You were flabbergasted to hear such horrid rules as a woman in royalty.

“Please sit my dear.” You did as your mother said and sat back in your vanity chair. “I know you are frightened as I was too but when you meet him you are going to never be apart. He is a good man and I know he is going to love you unconditionally.”

You felt like weeping right there. You didn’t want a husband. Maybe later but not in the prime of your life. You were still deciding on what purpose do you have in this life. It was too much. Your lips quivered, “mother I don’t want to get married. I do not know this person can’t you understand my side and let me choose who I want. Can’t you wait and let it be my decision. Please.”

Athela kissed your cheek, “I’m sorry but what’s done cannot be undone. He will be here any minute so please get ready. Ruthy make sure you cover those scars on her face, they are very ugly. Y/n, why have you not been using the creams I have given you?”

A tear fell down your cheek, you felt miserable. “I am not sure mother.” Your voice came out almost like a whisper.

“Well make sure you use it 3 times a day now that Prince Jakob is coming, we do not want him running away now.” She chuckled as she left your room.

You were used to this treatment and feeling unloved. You kept things bottled up inside never letting it spill. Your emotions were always hidden. You built a dam for your tears.

“My apologies your grace,” Ruthy said.

“I tried my hardest and did not succeed. That will forever be my greatest regret.” You stared at your reflection, hating what you saw. You were starting to feel disgust when you looked at your scars and bumps that littered your face. Not only that but you were hating what you were. You were being forced into something you did not want to do. You were letting yourself be dragged into this mess and you didn’t even put up a fight. This is your life, you were going to be stuck with a stranger for the rest of your life and there was nothing you could do. You - like many other times - hated your name and the royalty and wished it would all disappear.

“Why don’t I run you a bath? Maybe that will relax you a little,” Ruthy suggested.

As she was finished with that you got undressed and stepped inside. Goosebumps ghosted up your thighs, your stomach, breasts and arms. Even though you did enjoy a good bath it still didn’t make things any better. You sank yourself into the water, forgetting - just for a second - about all your worries. Ruthy washed out your hair and assisted you in getting dried. Again you sat on the vanity chair and Ruthy put powder all over your face adding extra to make sure everything was covered like your mother said. Your skin looked flawless and although you wished you looked like that it was not the truth.

“Now what to do with this hair?” Ruthy thought for a moment then snapped her fingers. “I have just the thing.” She brought back a diamond clip to scrunch up your hair. She put your hair up. Trying to cover the fact that a piece of your hair was shorter than the rest. “There we go. Good as new.”

“It looks beautiful Ruthy. Thank you.” You had wished Ruthy was doing your hair for maybe a cake ball or a convention about flowers but instead this was for meeting your future husband.

“Now, this is the dress her royal highness wanted you to wear.” Ruthy picked up a voluptuous dress that laid on your bed. It was silky and the color of baby pink. To your mother it was angelic, to you it was ghastly.

“Oh dear what an ugly looking dress.”

“Your Grace, maybe you should give it a try. Everything on you looks beautiful even if it is ugly.”

“Thank you Ruthy, you always know what to say about a terrible situation.” With the help of Ruthy you managed to slip the dress on. Everything was tight and in place. It looked as if you were to be married today.

You heard trotting of a horse and carriage nearby and you looked out your window. “Here they are.” You said in a monotone voice not even a little excited about your demise.

“Oh alright now remember your Grace to stand straight with your head held high! This is your moment to shine. You are going to remember this for the rest of your days!” Ruthy panicked but you can tell she was ecstatic for you. It seemed like this was for her rather than you. “Let us go!”

Ruthy walked out the room in a haste while you paused to take a look at your mixer on your desk. “You could of been my ticket out...”

“Y/n! Y/n! Where are you?” Edward, your father called out. His head looking every which way.

“I’m here father.” You walked behind Ruthy to finally greet your parents after the morning fiasco.

“Look at you my dear angel. How is your hair?”

“Well the mixer took one piece away but the rest is there.”

“Oh look at her Edward doesn’t she just look like a gem,” your mother gasped in awe. “I knew this dress would be perfect for this occasion.”

“I am very happy you all are having fun,” you said sarcastically.

“Aw cheer up dear,” Edward rubbed your cheek. “I hear this lad is very smart and a charmer. All the ladies fall for him.”

You rolled your eyes as the servants opened the door to your residence. It moved slowly because of its length. It was an enormous door that when closed sounded like thunder. It was a cream color with gold engraved in it. The large door opened and your parents walked with you in the middle.

“Smile or else,” Athela gritted through her teeth. She along with your father wore big smiles. You faked yours. Seeing the norm in this facade.

You all stood by the carriage awaiting.

“Are they ever going to come out?” You whispered in turn getting a slap on your arm from your mother.

The valet hopped out of the carriage and held onto the door but first he had to announce them. “Prince Jakob, Duke of Linwyn.” The valet opened the door and out came a tall, young man with brown hair. He came out of the carriage, buttoned his coat and looked up into your eyes. His eyes were light and looked so young and full of life. His lips were full as they formed into a smile. He had these boyish charms and a look of innocence yet sexuality. He was handsome! You were a bit taken back.

“See I told you he was cute,” Athela chuckled.

“Christopher Friss, Prince of Linwyn.”

“His father? I did not know his father was coming here too.”

“Of course. He needs to see if you are a good match for his son. Besides we have been friends with him forever.” Athela nodded her head forward.

Out came this taller man that was thicker in size. His hand that grasped onto the size of the carriage was big and had veins that were visible from working hard. His clothing style was impeccable. His hair was a light blonde but also with a hint of salt and pepper colors, slicked back and in a pony tail. His neck was thick like bark and his face was obviously older than his son. His strong, brown eyes looked at you and you were blown away. You could barely breathe and you didn’t know if this was from your corset or how he was looking at you. Your eyes widened and your lips were parted. You were bashful at seeing how handsome this man was. In that moment you wondered what his lips would feel like since you never kissed any one before. You were so innocent compared to him. He looked like he had been through war, he’s been through life, through the challenges. His tall body loomed over his son and the rest. You pushed back your hair as it became very hot in that moment. The Prince smiled as well. It was like floating on a cloud but then reality was setting in and you hated this moment. Your smile died and became a frown. In no way did you want this!

“Welcome, welcome old friends! You remember me and my wife?” Edward pointed to his wife. Jakob and Christopher greeted Athela. “And here is my daughter, Princess y/n, Duchess of Summervale.”

You took a step forward. “Hello your Grace, your Royal Highness. Please forgive me that I do not remember a lot of you two, but I hope we can make fond memories here.”

Jakob took a bow and kissed your hand, “pleasure to meet you after so long.”

“Welcome.”

Next came Christopher, the father. He was a tower compared to you. You had to look up to meet his eyes. Christopher took a bow and kissed your hand. It sent sparks coursing through your veins. He looked like a beast amongst you. You on the other hand looked like a little, fragile bird. You curtsied. “My, you have grown y/n.”

“Hopefully better but who knows,” you giggled at your own joke knowing you were much more prettier in the youth than now.

Christopher smiled, “you have grown into a beautiful young lady. Thank you for letting us into your home.”

You bit your lip as your eyes met the floor, too shy to greet his. He noticed this and his smile grew wider to something sincere.

“It is a great honor to have you here, Sir,” your voice sounded like a song to Christopher’s ears. A spark was sent off within him as well hearing you call him sir. It was your duty and his title but coming from you meant more to him. The time away from your mother and father was getting to become too long and the quiet seconds went away silent and very awkward.

“Y/n?” Your mother, Athela, called.

“Yes mother,” you twirled back to your place beside your two strict parents.

“Sweetheart,” Athela’s eyes kept going back and forth between Christopher’s, Jakob’s, and Edward’s. “Address our guests.”

Your father, Edward, grumbled, “yes, yes, yes. Please let us have lunch in the dining room.”

“We would gladly love that,” Jakob grinned whilst looking at you.

Athela made you stand by Jakob so you two lingered behind the group while the ‘adults’ talked.

“My, it really is a great pleasure to meet you after all these years.”

“Please Jakob my name is not my its y/n. Do remember who you are going to have lunch with,” you joked. Sending him into a fit of laughter.

“You have not changed one bit.”

“Sh*t! Do I still look like a 5 year old?”

Jakob’s eyes widened with you cursing. It was not in a duchess nature to curse.

“Please do not tell my mother, she would practically kill me.”

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

What you didn’t notice though was the way Christopher lit up with hearing you curse.

“I’m glad we have many days to be together. I want to know all about you.” Jakob played nervously with his fingers.

“I do not think so.”

“Of course I do. I want to know your hobbies. What makes you smile? What’s your favorite book? I want to know everything about you, I mean you are to be my wife. We should know our deepest, darkest secrets.”

“Oh dear you are not going to be amused with my answers. I am really normal and plain once you scrub off the whole duchess thing.” You passed the huge statue of your great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather, phew. Passed the many, wide stairs that led to all the different types of rooms. Passed by the ginormous chandelier that looked like you grasped onto stars from the sky and planted them in your house. And walked onto the soft, dark red carpet leading into the dining room.

Jakob sat beside you while Christopher sat in front of you and your mother sat beside you while your father sat beside Christopher. He gave you a half smile as you sat. You were too busy looking at his perfect, handsome complexion you knocked the cup of water that was left for you. The coldness dripped down your dress and soaked it. You tried your napkin but it was soaked as well. Athela rolled her eyes at your clumsiness. You were terribly embarrassed!

“Here let me help you with that,” Jakob picked up your drenched napkin and started dabbing away at your dress. No one has touched you there before. Your face was becoming hot. You looked to see Christopher walking to the situation, angrily snatching the wet napkin from his son and giving you his dry, napkin.

“What was that about? I was only trying to help.”

Christopher glared at his son and with a low voice said, “you don’t ever touch her like that without her permission. She is a lady, you show her respect.”

You kept quiet and pretended you didn’t hear a thing. “Thank you,” you whispered to both men. Christopher handed you sweetly his cup of water.

“I am very sorry, your Royal Highness.” Edward said. “My daughter is very clumsy. Why this morning she was trying to-”

“Bread!” You yelled.

Everyone looked at you oddly but you were trying to dodge the morning fiasco.

People were eating, talking, getting down to business but all you wanted to do was think of a new invention. There has to be something out there that you could invent that could change someone’s life.

“Sweetheart, sweetheart,” Athela snapped her fingers to disrupt your day dreaming. “Tell them that one time you matched your best friend and that handsome very tall prince together. You were a match maker.”

“That was only one time mother. They were all over each other even before I suggested the thought of them being together.”

“But you still purposed it. Our daughter loves that stuff. Loves love and romance and marriage.”

You felt like shouting and disagreeing with your mother but what was done was done. You didn’t understand love since you didn’t truly feel it and you for one did not want to get married.

“Don’t you dear?”

You nodded as you played with your food.

“Tell them what you like, my love,” Athela tapped your shoulder.

With excitement running through your veins you almost squealed at that question, “oh where do I start! I love inven-”

Athela stomped on your toes and frowned at you. She hated when you talked about your love for inventing. She thought it was a waste of time and very unattractive.

Christopher looked worried as he knitted his brows.

“I love...makeup and beauty. My hobbies are shopping and buying,” you said with a drag.

“Oh my dear y/n you are just a doll,” Athela tapped your chin to sit up straight so as not to have a double chin.

“Jakob why don’t you tell duchess y/n about your love for traveling?” Christopher said while dabbing his mouth.

Jakob sipped his tea, “yes, indeed. My hobbies are traveling. I love going to different places, its like going to new worlds. Its so unique and inspiring others cultures.”

Your eyes lit up hearing his adventurous life style, wishing it was you. “Really? I never knew this. Where have you been?”

“I’ve been to Africa, China and many more. Every place I’ve been to has been so beautiful.”

“Wow.” You leaned your head against your palm. “What a life. I wish I could go.”

“Oh don’t be silly dear those places are so far away from here why would you want to leave?” Your mother wiped her mouth like a lady.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take you one day,” Jakob whispered as he winked.

“And what about you, Sir. What do you like to do?” You raised your brow, asking Christopher.

“Me? I did not know you would be interested to know about an old man like me.”

“I want to know the most about both of you. You are our guest.”

“Well I enjoy books. I have a whole collection of books in my library.”

“Wait? You have a library? How big?” You were like a child in a candy shop.

“Bigger than a ship,” Christopher motioned closer to you.

“Oh my. Who is your favorite author?”

“Terry P. Whilliams, he wrote-”

“The Way of the World. I enjoyed the book so much and he is one of my favorite authors. He is just so-”

“Real.”

“And very truthful.” You clutched your dress.

“He wrote that passage that said how the sun and moon cannot live without each other. Without the sun there is no light, no morning. Without the moon there is no darkness, no night. He compared humans to that. Humans cannot live without each other. Humans love.”

You held your breath. Yes you read the passage but hearing it come out of his mouth made it so much more dramatic and moving. “Yes, I do remember that.”

Jakob scoffed, “boring! Sorry my father is such a bore.”

“Oh no he is very not that. I am a reader as well. I love reading about everything.”

“Remember what I told you,” Athela gritted through her teeth.

Christopher saw that and saw how sad your whole demeanor became. Your smile faded as well as your enthusiasm and you pardoned yourself quietly.

“I am excited for today’s masquerade ball. I haven’t been to one in a while and I feel as if I do need to let off some steam and enjoy the ambiance of,” Jakob inhaled, “my people.”

He was a party animal. Liked the setting, drinking, the ladies why of course, that was every young, single, mans dream and happy place. To you though it made you less attracted to him. You were an outsider, anti-social. Somebody who chose the comforts of her sad, pampered room rather than dance the night away with people who didn’t care about her.

“I’m glad, my dear.” Athela ate a piece of her salad. “You deserve it. Besides it is for you and y/n.”

“May I ask who will be attending?”

“A couple of y/n’s friends. Jamila-”

“Jamila will be going?” You asked.

Your mother nodded.

You wanted to shoot up from your seat. Jamila Hassan, Princess of Saad. She was your best friend. She was the only person you felt that understood you. She was like a sister to you.

“And also Lilo, Meera-”

You groaned hearing Meera. She was royal, snotty and spoiled. She loathed your guts. She was a hypocrite, and a liar. She was a terrible person. “Why mother-” You said no more when your mother glared at you again for what felt like the 50th time that evening. This ball was going to be way harder than you ever imagined.

Tag list: @harrington-lover, @angelgl16, @perfectlybeautifulsuit, @hyehoney, @haven-prelude (wont let me tag), @leasly, @totally-alexa21, @creamy-pasta-boi, @multireese, @fanfictionrecommendations-com, @prentisskelley, @malereaderforkpop (wont let me tag), @guardian-of-cookies, @justafangirl-97, @teenageshitposts (wont let me tag), @dippergravity (wont let me tag), @some-booty, @fromfoolishpeopletodeadpeople, @collectiveyou, @wtfisalltherandoms, @dirbel, @eastcoasthaven, @fangirl-4-life415 (wont let me tag), @melonreblogsstories, @reginalinettis

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spideyxchelle · 6 years ago

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Princess Michelle’s land has been invaded. And to save her country she knows what is expected of her, she knows she is set to marry a man she does not know, hardly respects and hates for forcing her homeland to its knees. Affection cannot grow in the face of war. Not even when the face of that war has the most gorgeous eyes she has ever seen.

When she was a girl, Michelle had a secret hiding spot in her father’s castle. It was a forgotten passage off of the servants’ quarters and when she needed respite from the seemingly endless string of etiquette lessons and princess duties, she would hide away in her little spot. It was smaller than a closet, but for a child it was a palace. One afternoon Michelle had tucked her favorite cloth doll there when her nursemaid told her she had outgrown such childish flight’s of fancy and, another day, she fashioned a sword out of twigs she found on the castle grounds. In that room, she had no limitations. She was free. The princess could imagine herself a great knight or dragon rider that took on the evils on the world in battle and no one would snivel their unpretty noses and chastise her for dreaming.

In that room, she was a heroine. In the damp, forgotten corner of her father’s great house, she imagined armies collapsed under her might of her mighty, wooden weapon.

As she grew, she abandoned the little crawl space. She outgrew the low walls and her whimsical childhood to bend to her duties as a princess. Large acts of rebellion like fashioning a sword turned into smaller acts of defiance like forgoing her corset on a hot June day. Children cease to dream and imagine when the grow out of their fantasies.

Yet, meeting Prince Peter had awoken that little spark of rebellion. It caught fire in her and licked at the marrow of her bones as if to say—awake, wild child, and run. And so she ran with him. She climbed on the back of his great dragon and together they forsook the world as it had been in the hopes for a better tomorrow. They made promises to one another as they tipped headfirst into love. She had trusted him because she had loved him.

It was hard to feel that love now, as she watched the battle rage on below the cliffs where she was safely stationed. He had abandoned her when the war drums called. He had climbed on the back of his ferocious beast and told her to stay behind, as if the war was not hers to fight as well. It had caused a schism between them so deep that she almost expected the earth to split open and yank them apart.

She hated him. She hated that he had given her wings to fly and clipped them cruelly when she was most eager to take to the skies.

As the sun set on the battlefield, the orange hues of the light turned the battlefield cruelly red. It bounced off of the bloody piles of dead men and those that lay in waste screaming for their Gods. It was as if the sun wanted to hide from the violence. Only the moon had the stomach for such bloodshed.

There was a mighty roar and Michelle looked beyond the cliff where a goch was quickly approaching. The squire Ned pulled Michelle backward, away from the offending animal, and when it landed the blue and red goch snarled.

It was Karin. And she was missing her rider.

Michelle’s heart stopped. Her eyes searched for her husband’s body, perhaps strewn over the back of his great beast. She prayed that he was injured and Karin had brought him back for aid. The beast’s great eyes, fierce and unwelcome as they always were to Michelle, held something desperate under the surface. She opened her great jaw and Ned shouted, “Stand back, your Grace.”

“No,” Michelle raised her hand and took a tentative step toward Karin who yipped unhappily. The goch did not remove her eyes from Michelle. They stayed locked on her master’s wife. There was neither trust nor warmth between the two of them. But in all they did not share, they had one important thing in common. “Peter,” Michelle whispered. “Where is Peter?”

Karin dropped the heavy helmet from her jaw and the familiar armor lay abandoned on the grass. Michelle fell to her knees and picked up her husband’s helmet. Her first and most terrible thought was that he was dead, but she clamped down her worries with only the steel women could carry. She had not given her husband permission to die. And so, he would not.

Michelle let out a desperate, haunting sound that was reminiscent of a sob. Ned crowded her space and placed a firm hand on her shoulder, “My lady—”

She shook her head, “No.” With more gusto, she repeated, “No. Not this day.” Karin roared in agreement. Michelle turned her head to the beast and there was not forgiveness nor companionship in the animal’s eyes, but there was understanding. Together. They would save him together.

The princess turned to her husband’s squire and shoved the discarded helmet into his fists. She adopted the voice of a woman that would lead nations, a Queen, “You will hold the line. You will keep these men and women safe. This battle is not lost. And neither is he.”

She yanked the sword she barely knew how to use from her scaber and tested the weight of it in her grip. It would have to do. The princess did not have time to think, only to act. Satisfied, she slammed the sword back into its sheath and crossed to Karin. The great beast flared her nostrils in contempt at Michelle but she did not bare her teeth or snap unkindly. She extended her wing so Michelle could climb on her back and made a noise that seemed to suggest—well, if you must.

Michelle brushed her hands along Karin’s scales and they breathed together.

Then, she mounted the dragon and swept her hands up in the flimsy reins Peter had fashioned for himself. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine him on the goch with her, the hard planes of his back resting against her chest to keep her safe and sound. She ached for him now and the hate that she had let burrow into her skin ebbed away like a song. She clutched reins, locked her feet in the stirrups and whispered to Karin, “Find him.”

Watching the battle on the back of a dragon was disorienting. Her eyes could not focus on the movement below. She was not out of practice at the skill, she had never learned it. There were other dragon riders around her that weaved and dodged and swept in the fray on the back of their beasts. Michelle did not have such skills, but Karin guided her without much prompting. She was singularly focused on her task to find her master.

In the whipping of the winds, Michelle heard a familiar shout, “What are you doing here?”

She turned her head and squinted to make out the fuzzy form of Quill, “Finding my husband!”

There was an uneasy beat of horror from Quill before he yelled to the battalion of riders, “FIND THE PRINCE!”

“NO!” Michelle howled, “HOLD THE LINES! LEAVE PETER TO ME!”

“Michelle—” Quill tried.

“That is an order,” she growled. Karin roared.

She could not see details of Quill’s face but she imagined him chomping on his jaw before he reluctantly gave orders to continue the fight. Her husband was her responsibility. He had saved her from her father’s house and she would save him from Thanos now.

As time moved from minutes to moonlight, Michelle tried to dampen the dread that was building beneath her armored chest. She could feel the uneven rhythm of the goch’s breathing beneath her. They carried their worries together as they swooped through the sky. They were finding nothing. He was lost to them. Michelle tried not to imagine her husband’s body crushed beneath the piles of dead bodies scattered on the field below. She tried not to see his eyes open and expressionless with the last fight of his life etched on his face. She hoped her fears were unfounded, but as time stretched on she began to doubt.

Fear gripped her and desperation paid her an unwelcome visit. “You have to let me down,” she whispered suddenly.” Karin yelped in confusion, so Michelle repeated more firmly. “You have to let me down. I won’t find him from the sky. I don’t know it as well as he did.” Her eyes prickled traitorously. “Does. You have to let me down. Into the fight.” Karin whinnied, making her caution known, but Michelle could not be persuaded. If there was any chance her husband was alive, she had to go to him. “Please,” Michelle croaked.

Karin flapped her wings indecisively and then swooped toward the earth. If it had been another time, another day, Michelle would have carelessly thrown her arms in the air and relished the drop. Instead, she clung to the reins and pressed her body as close the Karin’s scales as possible, leaning toward the earth as if it would get her there faster. The dragon touched down and burned a ring of fire around the perimeter of her landing. All of the soldiers nearby leapt back as Michelle dismounted.

She walked around the head of the beast and rested her forehead against her snout like she had seen Peter do a number of times. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Karin huffed out of her snout and it blew warm air against Michelle’s cheeks. She took it to mean be careful and she promised touched Karin’s scales to reassure her she would bring their boy home. Michelle was not sure if Karin understood, but she roared once more and pushed off the ground to take to the skies once more.

Michelle was alone. The ring of fire separated her from the soldiers that stood hungrily outside the perimeter, teeth gnashing for a fight. The princess reached for the hilt of her sword and paused. The steel was not the wooden weapon she had fashioned in her childhood. She was gravely aware that she did not know how to use this weapon.

The princess withdrew her hand from her sword and closed her eyes, taking in a deep, settling breath. She would fight with the weapons that she had, sword be damned.

She extended her hand and little sparks of blue magic tickled her fingertips. The men beyond the ring stared in awe. The Thanosian people did not practice magic. It was seen as an evil skill that was base and uncivil. It was something that the wicked and uncivilized Starklands soldiers used as a nasty trick.

With her hair tied up in braids and her body in reinforced dragonrider leather, she supposed she looked more like a dragonrider than their princess. Her lip turned upward in a smirk.

Michelle did not have control over her magic like the people of the Starklands or like her father, but she knew how to wield it better than these men. She lashed out her hand and the blue sparks flickered out across the field, taking down all those that stood in her path.

As she forced her way through all the men that dared stand in the way of her pursuit, Michelle called out for her husband. Men cried out in agony in the heat of war, but none of those cries belonged to her prince. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat that told her to abandon all hope. As long as there was breath in her, she would hope for him.

She pushed through the warring crowds. Every Starkland soldier that saw her fighting, crowed in delight. They banged their swords against their shields and shouted her name like a battle cry. She brandished her magic ferociously and without apprehension.

The night began in earnest and the moonlight was the only light in the darkness beyond the occasional whips of her magic, like lightening in the black. The battle raged on.

But the darkness was not all a cloak. It made magic users easier to spot. And she followed the streaks of purple that lashed out into the sky. Thanos.

It occurred to her that if Peter was not lost on the field, he was in her father’s clutches. Or she hoped.

She cut down what felt like leagues of men as she moved toward her father, to end what he had started, what he had destroyed.

When Peter had shouted to his riders that afternoon he had conjured the names of those worth fighting for. He had spoken of the men and the women and the children of his kingdom. He had spoken of those enslaved by Thanos’ cruelty. He had spoken of his father and her and Nebula and Gamora. But he had not mentioned himself. He had been an afterthought, as if no one would bother to raise arms for their prince.

She would. She would fight for him with every ounce of energy in her lithe body. She would joust and scrap and war for his smile. Because to have a love worth having was to have a love worth fighting for.

Michelle broke through the last row of men that separated her from her father and his insidious group of grovelers. Cull Obsidian hacked a man apart for the sport of it. Corvus Glaive and Proxima Midnight flanked her father like two imposing guards. And Maw practically salivated at the sight of her. She reckoned she must have looked wild and savage to the group staring at her with barely contained amusement. It was an unwelcome sight to most, but Maw looked like he could devour her whole.

She did not have eyes for any of them. She was singularly focused on the bloodied man wheezing under her father’s boorish golden boot.

“Peter,” she choked. He was alive.

“Michelle,” he flinched, as her father applied pressure to his chest. “Michelle, run,” he tried to say, but Thanos was suffocating him.

Thanos simpered and she lit her hands up in blue sparks. “Hello daughter,” he cooed leisurely. “I confess, I am surprised to see you. I had thought it would have been the king. Or Gamora. Nebula, even,” he added. “But you,” he pressed deeper against Peter’s chest and her husband shouted in pain, “You are a surprise.”

“I’ll kill you,” she snapped, leashing in her most basic urges to send magic out to slice at her father’s smug face.

His smile fell, wounded. “You would kill me, child?”

She repressed the few happy memories of her childhood that dared make an appearance on the battlefield. “Stop it,” she ground out. “Get out of my head.” Her father had dark magic, evil magic and she could feel him invading her mind now. “None of these moments forgive you your sins.”

Thanos ground his boot into Peter’s chest and her heart lurched when her husband struggled and gasped. His hands were weak and bruised yet he held onto Thanos’ ankle as if he could force it away. He stayed firmly pinned into the ground. “I disagree.”

“Please,” Michelle grieved. “Stop. You’re hurting him.” She sobbed, “Your battle is with me.”

“You?” Thanos wondered and lifted his heavy foot from her husband’s chest. Peter gasped for air, but he remained a broken puppet on the ground. They had ground him into the earth and beat him beyond exhaustion. He looked like he was barely holding onto what little life was still beating in him. Thanos stepped over her husband’s body and Proxima Midnight yanked Peter on his woozy feet. She drew a sharp blade and held it against her husband’s long throat. She had kissed lazily kisses down the length of that throat that morning. It felt like another life.

Her father kept a healthy distance between them, but his presence was so imposing she felt as if he was breathing down her back. She was a scolded child, again. She did not have a special crawl space to hide away in. She was forced to meet his eye. “Daughter, our fight is with them. These foreign invaders that forced you into a marriage you did not want. That burned our countryside with dragon fire. That proclaimed to tell me, God’s anointed King, that my rule was unholy. These men are our enemies.”

She felt his magic massaging her mind, making her see his reason. She fought against him, but it was hard to stand up to a man that had bullied her free will into the dirt her whole life. She was afraid of Thanos not because he was an evil King and a unholy man, but because he was her father.

“Don’t,” Peter gagged on his own blood, “Don’t listen to him, Em.”

She shook her head, trying to free her thoughts of the cluttered cobwebs that he spun to fuzzy her conscience and reason. It was hard. And she was so tired. Perhaps it would be easier to lay down and submit to her father and King’s will. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Peter did not relent, “Michelle, look at me.” Her eyes flittered to her husband. He was broken and open and honest, “I love you.” It rattled her spirit. It dipped her in starlight. She breathed.

Proxima Midnight slammed the blunt edge of the hilt of her knife into his temple. He collapsed, woozy.

Michelle turned her gaze on her father and her hands began to shake. The magic was building in her, it was a dangerous thing. She was a threatening, unstable vehicle for a power she did not understand. The blue sparks crackled and Thanos drew forth his own magic. But it was too late.

She had been repressed, beaten down, made to feel less than her entire life. She had been a pawn. She had been sold off like a prized breeding mare. She had been locked away and manipulated by fear. She had lost her sisters and watched her mother suffer under her father’s cruel hands. She had known only misery and terror.

And yet, she had survived. She had survived for this moment. She had survived to save them all. But she had survived, most of all, to save herself.

The blue magic that bubbled under her skin, that had been locked away for years and years, finally lashed out in an explosive, rippling circle. It rocked out of her and engulfed Ebony Maw that burned up in the blue, unforgiving flames, his mouth open in an unsounded scream. It charged through Proxima Midnight and Corvus Glaive and tore them to ribbons. It shot through Cull Obsidian and cut clean through his head.

But it was her father that she watched through the destruction of her small outburst of unbridled magic. He raised his fist, as if to snap his fingers and use his own magic to stop her, but it stalled. He was frozen and his eyes, for the first time in her life, showed a burst of fear.

And then, he began to disintegrate. He decayed and sunk into the dirt as he body became ash. His hand fell away, his body crumbled and he rotted from the inside out.

The last part of her father to collapse into nothing was his face and he whispered into the night air one word—“Gamora.”

When it was over, the surge of energy that swelled petered out. Her knees sagged. She felt like a well of energy that had been drunk dry.

She spotted her husband’s broken body in the dirt where he had been dropped by Proxima Midnight. His face was slackened in pain.

Michelle tried to crawl to him, but she was too weak. Her hand extended toward his and the last thing she felt before she succumbed to the darkness was the pad of his hand grazing her own.

#ficlet #arranged marriage au

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annoyedfanfiction · 6 years ago

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new sheriff

robin x reader part 7

warnings: spoilers (?), major character injury, violence, sickness, injury

Wednesday was market day, and despite the lack of goods for sale, there were still a few stalls, and the streets were crowded. Thea stood at the front of the podium, as John sounded a gong to garner the crowds' attentions.

"People of Nottingham county." Her voice was clear in the heavy silence, ringing with all the hopes of a nation. "Let it be heard and known about the lands and realms of Richard, His Majesty, King of England, that on this day, in the year of our Lord 1195, Vaisey, previously known as Sheriff of Nottingham, has resigned his control of the county." The street erupted into whispers, uncertain, hopeful. "With the power bestowed unto me as bearer of this letter of royal seal, I now deliver this position onto Robin, Earl of Huntingdon and Lord of Loxley, also known as Robin Hood." A cheer split the whole street. And then was instantly silenced by the arrow that flew at them, aimed for Robin's head, as he stood beside her. She shifted, almost imperceptibly, knocking him aside and feeling it sink into her neck, as Gisborne stormed in, ten men on his heels, and the people parted for fear.

"I am Guy of Gisborne, Lord of Loxley and Earl of Huntingdon–" The people booed behind him, cooing and snarling, as Thea pulled the arrow from her neck and pulled the bandage from her hand up to it, unseen by Robin as he turned to his old enemy.

"Guy of Gisborne, as Sheriff of Nottingham, I now strip you of your land and titles." Robin was made to lead the people, as he spoke with such calm confidence, despite having been almost killed, "And place you under arrest for treachery, conspiring against the crown, and the attempted murder of your King." His guards glanced from one to other, then dropped their weapons, as the crowd closed in around them, surging, snapping at their heels. Allan leapt off the temporary stage, strapping a rope around Gisborne's hands, and dragging him off the streets, with the crowd drowning out his curses against their lives.

"The Council of Nobles is assembling today, as usual," Robin continued, as though one of the most influential men of their time hadn't just been dragged off in disgrace. Then he stepped off the podium, with John, Much, and Thea on his heels.

"Where did that arrow of Gisborne's even go?" Allan asked, laughingly, looking around the stage for any sign of it. John, beside him, shoved his elbow into his ribs, eliciting a slight yelp. "Wha–oh." Thea glared at them both, as if daring one of them to say a word to Robin, who was in front of them, surrounded by his people.

"We don't have to tell him right now," John muttered, leaning over to her, "But perhaps you should go and clean that up? He will be a while." She rested her head on his shoulder to listen to him speak.

"Fine, but make sure you get him to the council on time," she agreed, with a smile, "I'll clean up quickly, then go ahead to assemble and keep the council." John huffed, smiling, and lightly shoved her towards the castle.

"Where's Thea?" Robin asked, as John and Much practically dragged him back into the castle. "She went to get tidied up, and then to assemble and keep the council until you were done," Allan answered, honestly, the arrow wound burning on his tongue. "Never trusts me to be on time," Robin chuckled, picking up his pace towards the council room. John just looked at him, shaking his head. "We almost dragged you off that street," Allan pointed out, incredulously. "She's sensible."

"My apologies, Lords and Ladies," Thea was saying, as they entered, "The Sheriff will be here in a moment, he was just held up by this morning's events."

"I apologise for my tardiness," Robin agreed, turning many of the council's eyes to him, "I had matters to deal with among the people."

"Robin Hood." A couple of Vaisey's favourite nobles stumbled a little. "Where is the Sheriff?"

"In accordance with the announcement made this morning, under the seal of Prince John," Allan said, confidently, as good at any role as always, "Sir Robin, Earl of Huntingdon and Lord of Loxley, is now Sheriff of Nottingham." A ripple of surprise ran through some of the unaware nobles. "Indeed, shall we begin business?" Robin asked, taking his seat at the head, and gesturing for John, Allan, and Thea to join him at the executive table. "Tax reports. Lord Agravaine." Halfway through her father's report, Thea slipped to her feet, almost silently, murmuring an apologetic excuse, and disappearing out a servant access door.

"Lady Thea?" The cook caught her as she staggered into the kitchen, hand still pressing tightly to the now-bandaged wound on her neck. "Aren't you meant to be in the council meeting?" Thea nodded, then shook her head, continuing almost blindly through the kitchen, fishing an empty chamber pot from the storage cupboard. "Hot water, please," she rasped, and the cook raced to put the kettle onto the stove, as Thea staggered out of the kitchen, just as John came clattering down the same stairs. "Did you see Thea?" he asked, hurriedly. The poor cook nodded, waving him in the direction she had disappeared in, watching John follow her with all of his usual dark threat. "Thea?" He eased into the room, speaking softly. Thea was sitting miserably in one corner, leaning against the wall. She wretched again, and he pulled her long hair back. A soft knock sounded, and the cook entered, a bowl of warm water in her hands. "Thank you," John acknowledged, as the cook watched Thea worriedly. "What is making her sick?" she asked, as Thea leant back again, panting. "Is Robin still in the council?" Thea rasped to John, gripping his arm tightly, "He cannot abandon this council, it is his first as Sheriff." "He's still in there," John soothed, calmly, waving the cook forward with the water, "What's making you sick?" "Back," she answered, leaning forward to reveal a half-undone dress, with a bandage peaking out behind it. "Where Gisborne caught me." "He stabbed you before Robin shot him." The realisation seemed to physically pain the strong man, as he paused in unfastening her corset. "Why didn't you tell us?" "No time. I cleaned it, but–" She cut herself off as John cursed, inching off the bandage, to reveal the swollen, red skin. "Infection," the cook breathed.

"We need Djaq," John stated, urgently, even as the cook pressed a soaking cloth to the weeping wound. "Djaq's in the Holy Land," Thea pointed out, "Just wash it, I'll be fine." "No you will not!" John roared, startling the cook into a jump. "You'll always be fine, but what about when you aren't, Thea? What happens then? What happens to Robin? What happens to me?" His whirlwind vanished from the room, clipping the door shut behind him. "John, we can't afford to interrupt the council!" she yelled after him, but earned no response. "You would rather die of infection that jeopardise Robin's rule as Sheriff?" the cook asked, softly, once again pressing the steaming cloth to her back. "If I jeopardise Robin's rule, I jeopardise not only Nottingham, but the King and all of England," Thea replied, dragging herself to her feet, chamberpot in hand. "Would you mind helping me to my room?"

They would have made quite a sight, Thea with her dress halfway off to reveal a pulsing wound in her back, leaning on the cook with her bloodied cloth and water. Indeed, to Lord Agravaine's uncomprehending eyes, it was a shock. "Thea?" He caught her as she stumbled, with John rushing up behind them all, Allan on his heels. "Father." She greeted him with a weak smile, shifting some of her weight onto his proffered shoulder. "How did this happen?" he asked, as Allan pushed open the door of her room. "Gisborne stabbed me in the back," she informed him, matter of factly. "Apparently it's infected." "Apparently? Thea, this wound is beyond infected," her father scolded, lowering her onto the bed and pulling open the back of her dress to expose the wound again. "John and I are going to get a physician, Lord Agravaine," Allan assured him. "She's in the Holy Land!" Thea burst out again, "Robin cannot have both of you gone at the same time – especially not now. An English physician shall be fine." "The only one available is the Sheriff's personal pet," Allan replied, simply. "We need Djaq." "I'll go." Lord Agravaine stood up from his daughter's bedside, letting the cook tend to her wounds again. "Where can I find this girl?" "In a villa outside Acre," John explained, with Allan jumping in to gesture wildly in description of the location.

"Father, it's dangerous," Thea warned, as the three men finished their discussion of the location. "You cannot get yourself hurt for me." "You are my daughter," Agravaine replied, simply, wrapping his daughter into a warm, gentle hug. "I will do anything for you." "You will at least need these." Thea pulled one of her tags off her neck and handed it to him. "She will know you are true." He placed the tags around his neck, almost reverently, and a kiss on her forehead, before he was gone. "Now you two get back into that council and get this done right," she ordered John and Allan. "No more fussing over me. Eva has this under control." John hesitated, as though he was about to disagree, but Allan tapped his arm, and they both exited the room. Thea grabbed the pot and wretched violently into it.

John pulled Robin aside as the council ended, with the nobles all filing out. "Where did Thea go?" he asked, immediately, "Is she alright?" "Gisborne stabbed her, three days ago," John replied, still gripping tightly to Robin's arm. "She didn't tell any of us before she went to London. It's infected and she's taken a fever." Robin's face darkened, and he ran a hand through his hair, cursing. "How is she? Has she got a physician?" John followed Robin through the corridors, to his stream of questions, which cut off abruptly as they entered Thea's room. The cook jumped to her feet, bowing her head. "My Lord Sheriff." Robin smiled at her, but tightly, not taking his eyes from Thea, who was once again wrenching into the chamberpot. "No need for such formalities, Eva," he murmured, "Thank you for tending to Thea." "It is my pleasure," Eva replied, easily, "But I am afraid there is only so much that hot water can do. She needs medicine." "John, which physicians are–" "Only the Sheriff's pet," came the answer, immediately, "We've sent for Djaq." "Good," Robin turned to face them, "Did Allan–" He cut himself off as Allan slipped in the door. "Lord Agravaine," John said, gruffly. "Robin," Thea mumbled, reaching out a hand in his direction, watching through almost unseeing eyes. "Why didn't you tell us, Thea?" he questioned, softly, sitting on the bed beside her and pulling her close to him. Her forehead was dappled with the fever's sweat, and she was shivering. "There was no time," she whispered, voice crippled, "I washed it, but I had to get to London. I didn't think this would happen." Robin sighed, pulling her hair back away from her flushed face, fingers brushing against her bandaged neck. "What is this?" His voice almost burned in his throat. "Gisborne's arrow," Allan breathed, "This morning." Robin released a breathy growl, but Thea grabbed his arm before he could move. "Stay."

#guy of gisborne #robin x reader #robin hood x reader #robin hood #bbc robin hood #sheriff of nottingham #robin of loxley #robin of sherwood

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aleatoryalarmalligator · 7 years ago

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Life Story Part 54

So, I hadn't really spoken to Ava in some time at this point. I feel like we saw her time and time again in vehicles. We were now going to school in the same town after all, albeit, in very different environments. I certainly heard the stories about her – in a year's time since she'd left Kendrick, she had become very well known. How promiscuous she was, or that she had cheated on people, stolen from people, or how she had done more drugs and alcohol than most of the other people. She seemed to have her hands in a lot of cookie jars. Ava had dated Teal's boyfriend for a time, Lee – until he had left her for someone else. Lee had been into this band, HIM, which was a band that Sarah was really into. I could never quite get into HIM. I didn't like the sound of their instruments. I felt their albums were overproduced, and their lyrics were more about dark romantic images but had no meaning.

Ava ended up getting tickets to see HIM in Seattle that late fall however, and she hadn't seen Sarah or I for awhile, so she invited the both of us to go with her to Seattle. I had never been to Seattle before. There was always a part of me that resented Ava for what she had done. I felt like, in stepping between Zack and I, she had changed the course of my life. It was more than just the friendship betrayal thing. I really woke up everyday going over it and over it in my mind, even though it was going on two years since Zack had been in my life. They say time heals all wounds, but of course many of us know that to be silly. Time distorts feelings and memories. But certain things just don't disappear like that. I would say at this point, Zack was like this secret teddy bear I would pull out whenever I felt like the world was out to get me, either physically, or metaphorically.

Also, the feelings I had had for Zack had changed me in other ways that had nothing to do with Zack or myself anymore. I am not saying that my love for him was one of a kind. I realize there is only so much that is possible for me to describe with my writing capabilities, and it's been nearly fifteen years since those junior high days, so things are blurry to me now. But what I had felt had been so real that I had – and still have this ability to emotionally transcend all the meaninglessness of my life. The feelings come and go, but they laid the tracks down for my depth of feeling and imagination. For this reason, Zack became a symbol to me, of enlightenment. This is what he was to me, and how I viewed him, long after the fact. If Zack thought of me often during these times, I cannot say – but I am sure it was not like I thought of him. And when I had to see Ava's wild happy manic face, I felt this cold resentment. She had Jolened me. She had stepped on something beautiful because she had felt like it at the moment. She had changed me, and in some metaphorical way, I felt like she had clipped my wings, so now I was forced to struggle on the ground to build the stairs to reach the places in life that I had once had wings to fly to. For Ava, there would always be another person to go to after this one. She was much more of a survivor than I was. But things still hurt me.

All the same, Ava was fun as hell, I have never met a more fun person. And Seattle was Seattle. And I more or less liked HIM at the time, even though it wasn't truly my thing, so I went along. It was over the course of a weekend. Ava's father drove us. I was mystified and perplexed how Ava treated her dad. She would yell at him because of his driving. She would tell him to pass people, scream at him to speed up. Chastise him for not making the right lane. It was awful, and unnecessary. She didn't appreciate the trip at all. I could never even imagine doing that with a straight face, let alone to my own father, who would have shouted so loud that a black hole would have formed (I'm no scientist – seems legit), and I would have been sucked in for all eternity. The Washington desert is actually quite large. When people think of Washington, they think of the evergreens, basically the areas by the Coast and Mount Rainier and the Cascades. They don't realize that 75% of it is just dry evil desert. Each time I cross the Washington deadlands, I always wish that I could stop and take pictures of all the small towns, the dilapidated buildings that I find beautiful, with the bleak clouds in the backdrop.

When we finally got towards Seattle, I could barely believe my eyes. I had seen Portland, and I thought it had looked industrial and enormous. Seattle looked like the future. I was shocked at all the enormous signs, the angular sky scrapers. It looked like (and is) a very corporate city. It seemed almost like another planet to me, I was so used to small town life. When we went through the tunnels upon entering I was almost afraid and thrilled, seeing the way the darkness took over everything and there was nothing but the cars in front of you, all seeming to speed at 100 miles an hour, with the orange glow from the lights on the side of the tunnel. I was really that taken aback. It was hard for me to believe this place was real somehow. I knew that cities were big, but I didn't anticipate the atmosphere, or the feeling of hundreds of thousands of living beings competing and all with separate lives and ideas. This might sound crazy, but when I am in places where there are a lot of people, I feel really can sense all those people. It's not like I can hear thoughts. It's much more subtle than that. I get the strong vibes about it.

We were supposed to get the the show as soon as possible, but Ava was hungry and mad, so we stopped at a local Ihop. My father hadn't given me any money for the trip – he was/is very much a cheap toe in this regard, so I watched Ava wolf down ten pancakes. I was happy though, just staring out the window at the big city. It was raining of course. I remember leaving and we drove on city streets that were steep. The rain and the lighting and all the people almost reminded me a little bit like Bladerunner. When we finally got there, I had to wait in line. My ticket was in will call, and my line ended up being much shorter than theirs, so I stood alone and eventually got a better place than them. I was dressed grungy in a low key sort of way, and I felt a bit peculiar, because many of the people around me, real fans of HIM and melodic goth music in general, were dressed in black lace Victorian outfits that must have cost a fortune. White skinned lads with monocles and top hats escorted ladies in corsets and large framed dresses. HIM attracts a very similar crowd of people, and seems to lyrically loosely be based on the same people who admire and adore The Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice. I could not help but to notice just how lovely city people were. Small town people, though I don't actually see ugly in the same light as others do, are a lot more molish. I don't know what the secret of city people are keeping from middle America, but I want to find out. Other than the homeless people, people are better dressed, their skin looks nicer, they seem trimmer and more ready for the world. Of course, it's probably because I am walking down areas where people who have money shop. And money buys health – to a certain degree.

I was stopped, and a very giant lady – not fat, but giant, felt me up and down in a very serious way to ascertain that I was not carrying a weapon into the venue, she was slightly rude and pushy with me in the way that city people are when they don't have time for you. Of course, I just stood in the front area of the concert, trying and wishing I could get in the very front, and then eventually squeezing in to a place I wanted. Then I stood for another ten years, as you do during the beginnings of concerts, till your legs are just about to fall off – until the first roady comes in and gives you false hope that the band is going to start. Eventually, the first band came out, a band called Finch. Though I will never really say I dislike any genre, since certain bands give their genre a good name and some bad, I won't say that I dislike metal, screamo, nu metal, or post grunge, exactly, but this music never really appealed to me. From what I remember, Finch was kind of a screamo metal band that fit loosely in that category. It was kind of painful.

Then, eventually HIM came out. Sarah and Ava both had enormous crushes on Ville Vallo, the singer. He is a very unique and strong faced man. I will say that. He is lovely, in a very feminine vampirish way. He was definitely not my kind of lad however – like he was theirs. The show was pretty decent overall. I liked it more than I thought I would. One thing I will say – not that it matters since most people don't know who HIM is anymore – they were more of an early 2000's deal, is that they sound a million times better live. Ville actually sounds a lot more like Billy Idol than he does on album. He had a great scream, a scream that was never once captured on any of HIM's albums – which is pretty disappointing as history will never know the truth.

And since seeing CKY and meeting Chad I. Ginsberg, I had decided that in concerts, when you want someone to notice you – or even if you want someone to notice you in real life (though they might find you a bit odd), you stare at their eyes intently, and you try to dig through their brain. I didn't want to bother with Ville, but I tried it with his guitarist, who had famously taken some kind of shyness stoic oath to never look at his fans when he played. And he did seem to just look down almost the entire time. But I had one goal in mind, and I set to it. Eventually, after five songs in, he looked at me and he smiled. I was very satisfied. In a way, I felt like my ability to make the guitarist – I think his name was Lindy look at me, it kind of made me feel like I was still unique and special, even in a big city, and if I angled my goals properly, I could bypass just about anyone to get what I wanted. I could also mentally manipulate people without having to say anything. When you are not good with speaking – as I for the most part am not – being able to have an effect simply by giving the right facial expressions or wielding a commanding presence is very helpful in compensating for that.

I was saddened to leave Seattle. All my life, Seattle had been there, and I hadn't known it. I had walked back and forth in the small little town of Kendrick my whole life. I had learned to be deeply satisfied with rocks I found at the creek, fifty cent ice cream cones at the small supermarket, the howling of coyotes at night, the smell of nails in the local hardware store. And that had been all there was. I found people who seemed to elevate my life in some way or another, just in my small town. I could only imagine the possible friendships and people that I was meant to meet in a place like Seattle. I was missing out on life. It ached deeply.

Thanksgiving came along once again. My father decided to skip Thanksgiving. Mostly, Maria's family was living with us at that point and he didn't have the money or the wish to spend time with Maria or her kids. She took care of the house by this time and he would come home and go straight to his cold room upstairs. The television was always on cartoons – usually Barbie movies for Chantelle. The house was warm and peopled. To me, it was better than it had been. I think it was doing my father a favor too, but he was getting frustrated with Maria being there. Mostly, he wanted to buy more speakers. He had already spent several thousand on speakers and amps and foot pedals and such, and he wanted more. And Maria's son Ian was the kind of kid who would have ruined his speakers, and there was also not enough room for the speakers and amps he wanted so long as they were there. But he couldn't complain. I was in school till 6:00pm and couldn't be home to make dinner or anything like that.

My mother also skipped Thanksgiving, though we ended up getting invited to a late one later on by Danny's rich parents of Italian heritage. It was a last second thing. My mother felt anxious and outclassed. She was very worried that she wasn't good enough for Danny, and she demanded that we all dress up for the invited occasion. All I had was flannels, t-shirts and jeans. But she somehow found a black velvet baby doll dress for me to wear, and that was the first time I ever wore a dress since I had been ten or eleven years old, and only then for a band field trip at the time.

Before then though, I had been under the assumption that I wasn't going to get a Thanksgiving at all. Mike and Jenni heard about that, and Mike's eyes teared up a little bit. I tried to explain that it really wasn't too big of a deal, but he seemed to feel that it was heartbreaking and cold. Mike and Jenni always had their own Thanksgiving for the students. And in most ways, that is the official Thanksgiving I had that year, since Danny's parents were kind of judgy and strange and it had been an awkward dinner to say the least. I remember Mike and Jenni really went out of their way. We had all the good Thanksgiving foods, and there was as much of it as we wanted. They even had three different kinds of pies. I think at that moment, Mike and Jenni were at the peak of my liking for the two of them. They just really seemed to care if I had a good Thanksgiving. I tried to take that care, and spread it over my entire childhood. I tried to imagine that someone above me had cared at every junction in which someone had not cared, and for a time, I really believed they did care about me quite a bit.

Math was the one subject that wasn't taught well. The school had limitations in this area. The teacher was a young shy woman named Julie. She was very nervous and didn't seem confident in her ability to explain mathematics. I could tell she was a very practical and serious person. I've noticed those who get degrees in mathematics come in all shapes and sizes, but they all seem linked by this particular outlook on life – mathematical. She had just gotten her degree – and this was her first job teaching. There wasn't room for her to teach us altogether in one classroom, since the building only had two classrooms and one computer lab, so we were forced to watch a video in the computer lab with a sterile man explaining math problems to us. The video's sometimes didn't even work, so in that case, you were lead to a test, where they would give you multiple choice answers to pick from. Remember, I had only a passable understanding of ½ of a year's worth of algebra I. This was geometry, and I wasn't really ready for it. However, it was the only math class that was available and I needed math credits, so I was put in this class anyway. Julie tried to help all these students, but every single one of us was lost so she was over her head bouncing around trying to explain to us individually how to do the questions. She had a tendency to start doing the problem you were having troubles with, without explaining why she had chosen each step.

I sort of challenged her in a way that I didn't need to. It was probably immature. I just felt lost in the class, and got sort of nihilistic about the meaning of why I was doing multiple choice on complex math equations. I was passing, given that I had a way of staring at the problem long enough to where one just seemed more right than the rest, and generally it was. But I didn't know why, so it seemed pointless to even try in the math class, and I think Julie understood why I might feel that way, and yet she had no remedy for this mathematical crisis since the job was nearly impossible as it was – and she was shy and nervous and it put her on edge. I often would spend time on MS paint rather than do my math, and eventually she raised her voice at me. Looking back, I was making it difficult for people to teach me. I wasn't able to put myself in other people's shoes like I am now. She was actually trying to do something that was impossible. I could have at least complied to the best of my ability – but oh, the folly of youth. We are all masters of hindsight.

Mike began reading a book to us for literature class. I felt this was a strange move on his part – since it seemed to me that reading aloud was only ever done when teachers lazily wanted to give off the impression of making their students be 'involved' with each other's learning, by forcing them to all take turns with reading, which gives a very inconsistent and nerve racking experience for me. The book Mike chose to read us was called A Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley and I had never heard of it. Honestly, though I had been an adamant reader when I had been younger – mainly fantasy and soft science fiction books for young readers, I had given up on reading the moment I met Zack, and it had never occurred to me after that to pick up a book very often unless it pertained to a musician I liked. Mike read it very passionately, and it was offputting at first, but after awhile, very enjoyable. I won't explain the details of the book – else I spoil it for people, but I have always felt that, with having had the privilege of having the novel read aloud and explained to me by someone quite passionate and qualified to do so – I have a much fuller grasp of what the novel was about than many people do – not that we are talking about something profoundly difficult, but it has challenged a lot of people. I've met people who read it and didn't really understand the ideas that were at play.

What I took from the novel, and what the novel captures has less to do with a dysutopia we should all be afraid of happening in our imminent futures. Basically, it was a novel that explores consumerism and technology in society, the incompatibility between comforting bliss and truth, alienation from the society you grew up in and the meaning of love and sexuality – or meaninglessness of that. These are ideas I still explore today. This novel really changed the way I thought about things. These were ideas that, as a dumb 7th grade girl pining for Kyle Blegen's attention, I dealt with. Ideas of this nature had always been a part of my life in some form or another, and I believe that these subjects are ones that come up in unspoken forms everyday in people's lives. I just didn't know how to name them and I had believed that I was the only one who noticed them – which might have been partially why I was taken in by the conspiracy theory stuff that Zack introduced me to. Feeling frustrated and alienated by the town I grew up in, being rejected, wanting love to be incredibly deep, but being confused by how sex was more of a product that you sold to people – men in particular, watching the world change around me, looking at the adult world that was quickly coming up on me and being sickened by the emptiness of it, the monotonous emptiness of my parent's lives and their overworked, overstressed systematic suppression of frustration vented at me for being born, and doing everything in my power to pull Sarah down in my own unhappiness, seeing her ability to get by in life that I lacked as a symptom of being 'one of them' - I really felt very trapped and alone.

But apparently, as I was soon to learn, I was not alone. In fact, I was never alone at all. I had not been able to articulate my thoughts – never heard anyone talk about these ideas and in a way I had never felt that they could be talked about – aside from maybe touched upon in song format – which I attributed to a sort of magic rather than the construction of logical thought, and so I had turned to feelings instead and rejected logic as some kind of enemy to art. When in all reality, the two were not exclusive, and there has literally been people in any given society for as long as human beings have been around. And there were writers, and great thinkers of every capacity that struggled just like me. It was what it meant to be human. And even the most famous supermodel in Hollywood probably wonders and struggles with these manifestations. It was humbling to me. It meant that I no longer had to put myself on a pedestal in order to feel like I had any sense of control or feel validated in my own confusion.

We ended up writing a very difficult essay for the book after it was finished, and it took me about three weeks of writing, but I got a B+ on it – and I felt like even though this might not be much for many of the students in public schools – none of their essays were this hard. This form of learning was actually causing me to rapidly catch up and even in some ways surpass the students of the main schools. It was painful. I remember this was when I started drinking energy drinks – I would drink them and write on the buzz. Mike was very impressed by my rapid improvement. He also noticed that due to the way my eyes shifted on the paper book (we all had copies of A Brave New World to read along to as he read), that I was gifted with being an equally auditory learner as I was a visual. Very few students were as centered in that category. And of course, this was happy news for me, as I felt unique and special on account of it.

I think that having reached this point in school where I was, even though I hadn't been there that long – I was now beginning to see myself as being academically gifted – not that I felt like I was a genius or anything, but some kind of pathway had been forged in my mind. I was at the top of my class. And now I was able to demonstrate a point with proof – I was not the dummy everyone thought I was. I had connected the left side of my brain with the right side and even though I had not learned a lot, I now saw the world of ideas and books as being equally real to the feelings I had, and the exterior reality around me. I knew how to swim through it and come out on top. I could visualize it. But this bothered me. I guess it bothered me because the only further thing a person could do with their academic capacity other than learning for fun – was to go to college. I felt like I had somehow been tricked by my teachers into seeing myself actually going to college and getting a degree. A part of me must have thought at the time that having a degree meant something was wrong with you. That you had sacrificed your anger and your youth to 'the man'. I felt like if I even considered college, then I was essentially giving up the life I wanted – being in a band, writing music, playing with Sarah – being cool and living in some kind of heightened form of reality I now know isn't real – or at the very least, is fleeting just like so many other things.

During second semester, Sarah and I didn't go to the middle class. It was a speech class. Mike was oddly cold about my stage fright. He didn't really want to talk about it with me, or at least that is how I remember it. He wasn't going to give me baby steps into it, and when I had to stand up to read something I had written, I felt like I was going to throw up or pass out. It was too much for me. My ego was too problematic. And for some reason – I think it was because I had done okay in speech class in Kendrick's high school, I didn't need speech credits per say. I still could have used those credits towards other subjects (for some reason they let the school do that), but I wasn't about to suffer like that on account of a speech class. So Sarah and I skipped. Since lunch was one hour, and classes went at about two hours, this gave Sarah and I three hours in the middle of the day to do whatever we wanted. It was winter now, and mind you – we were both very broke. So we would often cross the street over to this gas station jointed with an A&W and we would scrounge up the money to buy watered down coffee to draw and talk. The coffees were a dollar a piece and weren't so bad if you took total and full advantage of the mini creamers and sugar packet section. It was starting to snow in Moscow. It gets mighty cold in that college town in the middle of one hundred miles of farmland surrounding. It was oddly comforting to stay indoors, sitting at our appointed table to draw and talk as we looked across the street at the school, and at the snow and rain and cars. Everything felt so impending and real somehow.

I started talking to Sarah very seriously about what we should do next. Because I could only see staying the course of school to be counter intuitive to everything we stood for. I was beginning to get nervous about just how much I loved going to school. It didn't seem right somehow. It wasn't the cool life I had invisioned. It didn't seem very punk to stay in class and get an education. Furthermore, I was so behind on credits, I would have been in my twenties in order to pass – and that would be if I passed every single class. I was grateful at having learned so much, and wasn't about to rebel for the sake of it anymore. In fact, I was quite embarrassed for my first days in class of announcing stuff about The New World Order and the Freemasons and not knowing what I was saying or making any sense at all. I actually cared about what Mike thought of me. I actually cared about the truth now, and everything that came with that. But it didn't make sense for us to stay only to not graduate anyway. Sarah agreed with me, or at least seemed to. We agreed we would stay the rest of the year, and then we would get jobs, and start getting the equipment we needed and start practicing everyday like our lives depended upon it.

So, probably in an attempt to get a reaction from Mike, I started intentionally talking to Sarah about it in front of Mike one morning as he was getting his lessons in order for class that day. He was disappointed to hear about it. I could tell he didn't want to outright dismiss my dreams of angsty youthful instant success. But he wanted to do everything in his power to stop it from happening. To Mike, a college education was everything. Subtly, I think Mike looked down at people without degrees – which probably wasn't right, though I can see where he was coming from. I think he felt his goal in life was to get people with problems and in hopeless and lower class economic status to go to college and maybe to fight back against oppression and war. Mike was very much an idealist, and his realism was more of a defense mechanism against not getting his hopes too high. I don't remember the arguments I made exactly. I wasn't rude exactly, but I wasn't exactly diplomatic about it either. Mike ended up telling Jenni, who also talked to us. I can imagine it now, the conversation they had about Sarah and I in their ride home from work together. Mike and Jenni always felt that Sarah and I weren't good for one another. Maybe in some odd way they had a point – especially back then, but on that note I still have to say fuck them on that one ( a friendly fuck you, not an aggressive one). Not that they were ever mean about it. But they said and did some things that gave me a strong indication of what they thought on that note. Our dynamics were probably very unhealthy. Jenni didn't trust Sarah. She was friendly towards Sarah, she liked Sarah. But she thought that there was something about the dynamics of the situation that Sarah was feeding off of. And maybe my emotional issues were more understandable given I had a - I won't say abusive per say, because there was good in the bad, but a traumatic life thus far and might have been struggling against life more than Sarah was. Sarah was avoiding any sense of anger or responsibility and almost felt more important if people were mad at her – though it also stressed her out and made her feel horrible about herself. She just liked living in her room and daydreaming – though I think it is unfair to say that Sarah's problems didn't matter or exist. She had every reason to respond to her life the way she did as well.

Honestly, I wish I could have seen what they were seeing at the time, but being that I was the subject of study, I couldn't exactly ever know for certain. It would have been interesting. And I think Mike felt that I was more at fault than Sarah. One thing is for certain, Sarah and I had somehow developed a very unhealthy and codependent friendship, when I felt low about myself, suddenly the whole world became black and white and I felt betrayed and angry at Sarah, and then the next day I felt like our friendship was some kind of blessing and I felt very happy to be her friend and could not imagine what had caused me to be angry. And then I would go the other way. I was living in a split reality. I could not figure out why. My perceptions seemed amazingly clear and what I had to say made sense the same as when I was upset as when I was not. But I was getting crazier and crazier mad. We would come home, and Sarah and I would both be sobbing until we were too tired to think, and though we were both responsible for this madness, I was probably more at fault than she was. I had desperate insecurities and needs. Sarah had those too, but she didn't seem to know or want to do anything about it. So I was the one that acted out – probably due to childhood stuff that made me who I am.

After Jenni and Mike could not convince Sarah and I to stay in school, after getting called to the office to talk about it, I pretty much told them both it was a done deal. I asked Jenni not to tell our parents. I didn't really want to cause problems at home with my father or Sarah's mom just yet. We didn't want to be afraid to go home because of it. And it wasn't fair or wise to say anything to Sarah's mom or my father until we had a more realistic plan. Jenni agreed that she wouldn't call our parents on it, but come that weekend, Jenni had called Sarah's mom and raised her concerns. She didn't call my dad. Carol was not happy with Sarah. There was a chewing out of sorts. And I think this must have triggered me to feel betrayed completely. It reminded me of when the school had called my father, or when the teachers almost expected and wanted me to go to school with a black eye. I had gotten to the point where I felt safe with Mike and Jenni and now it was completely ruined and I could no longer trust them. I felt stupid for having ever trusted them to keep our secret. I was in a way – annoyed that they called Sarah's mom and not my father as well. Sarah and I talked about it as we drove to Moscow, and I was still heated up about it when I got into class. At some point in my conversation with Sarah, I called Jenni a liar. Mike overheard me talking, and he stepped in really pissed off about it. He told me not to call his wife a liar. He was actually angry. He wasn't about to lose his mind or anything, but I think it gave him the shakes. He really seemed to feel I was attacking Jenni on very personal ground. I don't think I said much about it because Mike's immediate reaction was offputting and intimidating, but I tried to point out that she had lied and it had messed with our lives outside of school (though it really hadn't messed things up for me actually – I was exaggerating because I was actually offended by the principle of the matter more than anything).

I think after this, Mike didn't like me. It was really quite that simple, and even though I held up my head as much as I could on it, it really hurt my feelings. In his mind, I had spit on the flower of a soul that was his beautiful wife, and with all the other awkward inconsistencies in my personality, the flawed need I had to argue, and just my overall everyday state of mind, he had had enough of me. He tried not to show it, but he seemed irritated by me in subtle ways. I suppose I don't blame him. I couldn't stand me either. He attempted to talk to me fairly even with the animosity, and some days were better than others, and we still engaged in conversation from time to time. But on a personal note, he didn't like me talking about friendly none school topics with him anymore – he would find subtle ways to snub me in that way. It felt like a wall was up against me. I didn't feel betrayed, I felt exiled. I became a little nervous about asking for help – as I have a famous issue for avoiding asking for help when I need it anyway and the slight bit of aggression towards me will certainly cause me to take a million steps back. The only time I felt safe to do so was when I was so deeply into my studies that I couldn't care about who I was or Mike was – all that mattered was reaching a core message with what I was trying to express. I would get zoned and ask for help on something without caring during those times - so I still was asking for help, but it still was never easy. And I am not going to lie, thinking about that cold reaction of someone I had grown to trust suddenly becoming a wall still hurts a little bit. I guess it must have hurt his feelings. Being a teacher the way Mike was could not have been easy. I suppose I must have been impossible.

PART 53 - http://tinyurl.com/yae9wgbj

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PART 2 - http://tinyurl.com/lbt6xq2

PART 1 - http://tinyurl.com/l8xbvg8

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tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 7 years ago

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Trinkets, 12: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A sealed vessel topped by a jackal’s head, all crafted of glazed porcelain. The canopic jar contains a wrapped and preserved humanoid stomach.

A sealed vessel topped by a mummy’s head, all crafted of glazed porcelain. The canopic jar contains a wrapped and preserved humanoid liver.

A sealed wooden box holding seven sealed scrolls containing missives to seven different people. The missives are written in code and need to be deciphered.

A set of four metallic, pointed-toe boots designed to fit a horse or a similar equine creature

A set of soft leather suspenders that fasten to buttons on the front and back of trousers. They have two adjustable iron clips, triangular in shape and heavily rusted, each bearing an etched diamond shape.

A set of ten leather sleeves that fit over one’s fingertips and extend right up to the knuckles and palm.

A shattered stub of a wooden stake. Black blood covers the stake’s tip. Barely visible under the blood is some kind of rune, but its meaning is impossible to determine as part of it is missing.

A shrunken head of a zombie which still occasionally snaps its teeth together and moans.

A silk scarf once used to gag a captive siren. It occasionally makes strangely attractive sounds when the material rubs against itself

A single glove with three large fingers that puts out any candle sized or smaller flames it touches.

---Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

---Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.